


Haze

by jadedcrystalide



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, Child Abuse, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Muslim Otabek Altin, Otabek Altin-centric, PTSD, Slow Burn, Thoughts of Suicide, but i also love A N G S T, concerned yuri, ok listen i love the idea of beka's family being cute and supportive, protective Otabek, unsupportive parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 07:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11504190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadedcrystalide/pseuds/jadedcrystalide
Summary: Bruises weren't beautiful. Especially not when they decorated tan skin, when ribs were painted with a swirl of purple and blue and Otabek had to learn to get used to them, because there were always more to follow. He didn't know why his parents hated him so. He didn't know what he had done to deserve the beatings and headaches and aching limbs.But he did know one thing: the Hero of Kazakhstan was breaking.And Yuri was his only hope./In which Otabek is having trouble at home, and Yuri becomes increasingly concerned at his friend's secrecy and odd behaviour./(ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE because I'm h*cking depressed and have temporarily lost motivation for this fic. It's not discontinued tho dw. Read my other fic 'Breathe Easy, Class E2' if ur desperate for Yuri/Otabek angst xoxo)





	1. Synapse to Synapse, The Possibility's Thin

**Author's Note:**

> Henlo friends. I'm best at writing angst tbh and I haven't posted any angst fics yet so here ya go. This idea progressed through an intense and emotional maladaptive daydream and soooo here it is !! I've read loads of fics about mentally ill/ struggling Yuri and they're amazing but i need some struggling Otabek too! Plus his little sister whom he is very very protective of and I have named Sylvyan (pronounced silv-yan).
> 
> Trigger warnings for emotional and physical parental abuse, depression, hopelessness, vague thoughts of suicide, mild self harm
> 
> I'm going to split each chapter into 2 parts, with one part focusing on Otabek and the other on Yuri. Eventually they'll come together and I'll write them normally as one.  
> Side note: I'm Really Super Depressed my dudes so pls dont be angry if I don't update for a bit. I'll try my hardest!!  
> anyway idk hope u enjoy i guess

**Otabek**

The boy wore black jeans, a black t-shirt, a black leather jacket. He walked down one of the many dark alleyways of the city wearing black trainers that looked more than a little worse for wear, yet the feeling of stones and grit against his feet that entered through the holes was merely an annoying inconvenience at the back of his mind. Any other time he might have stopped to take them off and empty them, but now there was no time to pause. He had to hurry.  
  
Wearing colour was suicide at this time of night, especially in this part of the neighbourhood, where used needles and broken glass seemed almost beautiful as they caught the light of the moon. And when the moon was covered by a blanket of haze- smog, smoke, ashes, who knew- the entire street was plunged into darkness. The boy was virtually invisible if he remained quiet.  
  
(Making noise was suicide, too.)  
  
Cutting through alleyways was a risk, and he knew it, a dangerous risk that could either cut 20 minutes off the usual route or end up with him in hospital. Any other time he would have played it safe and walked the long way back, through winding streets and up a steep hill that would eventually lead to his home. But this time it was different: every heartbeat was a wasted second of time and he couldn’t afford to linger for long. The haze lingered in the sky, the trash and debris lingered on the streets like forgotten thoughts. The boy moved swiftly.  
  
The streets were unfamiliar to him, but not alien. He has been here before. Always in the dark, always before the sun started to rise, always when there wasn’t any source of light that would make his silhouette any more distinguishable than a faint outline. They would recognise him, the people who lived around here. Old friends and enemies, people he owed money to, or even just innocent citizens who had seen him on TV. Half of the people here might be taken aback with surprise or excitement to see such a nationally famous figure wandering the alleyways of Almaty. The other half would murder him.  
  
Darkness always scared him, the relentless desert of black that teased and smirked until the sun came up. He had hated it as a kid and continued to hate it as an 18-year-old. No choice though, no choice but to deviate away from the comfortably safe roads he would usually travel on. He had to hurry.  
  
A hand gripped a fabric bag- fabric to muffle the sound of it bumping against the outside of his thighs. Paper or plastic would have resembled an earthquake in the vast silence. Inside the bag sat sacred items, things he needed to get home before it was too late. He was pushed for time already. If only he had left a little earlier, if only he had brought his bike, if only-  
  
A noise! The boy ducked and slid behind a wall, an act that was well-practiced and fluid. Smashing glass, a bottle perhaps, maybe 100 feet away. No-one could see him here, no-one was following him, he was safe. He repeated these words in his head for a short while (whether it was 2 minutes or 20, he didn’t know. Time dissolved into the haze.) until he deemed it safe to continue. He gripped the bag handle until his knuckles were white. Losing the contents of the bag would make this mission worthless, and the fact that there were more than a few people around these parts who would happily stab him to take the items made his stomach turn.  
  
_Not the time to be sick, idiot. Hurry! You’ve got to hurry!_  
  
Running now, feet pounding on the concrete, no longer trying to be silent as he clumsily threw himself around corners. Once or twice he kicked over a trash can and would probably have winced at the sound if he could hear anything other than the blood pumping in his ears. The boy felt his legs burning and blood bubbling on his cheeks from where he had scratched himself against a bush, yet those unpleasant sensations joined the feeling of rocks in his shoes, cast to the back of his mind. He’d take care of them later, probably. The only thought in his mind now was to run.  
  
And ran he did.  
  
Times like these made him wish he focused more on cardio when he worked out; after what seemed like hours the boy was forced to slow down, and once he did his legs seized up and he fell, gasping, onto his knees. A distant whimper brought him back to his senses, and he wasn’t too surprised to find out it was coming from him.  
  
It took a few moments for him to realise he recognised the bushes either side of him and the pattern of tiles on the floor, and a few moments longer to notice that he was no longer in darkness. Streetlights surrounded him and illuminated the street, cast a warm glow of sepia upon his injured body. Somehow, at some point, the boy had broken free from the cold confines of the alleyways and was running up the familiar street that lead to his home. He had made it. He was safe. And the bag was safe too.  
  
A car drove towards him and slowed down as it approached the crumpled figure, as if the driver was concerned, and the boy noticed that he probably looked strange sitting in the middle of the pavement. He forced himself to stand and ignore his protesting knees, nodded reassuringly at the driver, and continued on his way. The car had reminded him that it wasn’t as late as it felt- and a look at his watch confirmed that it wasn’t yet 11pm. There was still time.  
  
Limping was unavoidable thanks to the throbbing in his legs, but luckily the route was a lot easier, and before long he was walking up the pathway that lead to his front door. His heart seemed to stop as he turned the rusted handle and the feeling of nausea returned. If he was too late, if he wasn’t fast enough, if they saw what was in his bag……  
  
No time for ‘what ifs’. The door was open, and the boy was half expecting someone to jump out and hurt him, or throw him out, or-  
  
“Beka!”  
  
The soft, excited voice of his little sister banished all fear into the back of his mind and everything was suddenly okay again.  
  
“Hey, baby. Sorry I’m late. Have you been okay by yourself?” He leaned down to wrap his arms around her and she happily melted into his embrace, nuzzling like a cat into his neck.  
  
“You smell funny.” She giggled and pulled back to stick her tongue out at him.  
  
“Sorry. I’ve been…. Running.” The boy explained with a small smile and stood up again, took her hand, and lead her into the kitchen.  
  
He placed the bag on the table, a feeling of pride filling his chest. He had managed to get the items and take them home safely without being caught or hurt, despite the panic and the dread that had almost made him drop them many times. And now, even with the headache and the painful knees and the stones in his shoes, he was safe.  
  
“Sylvyan.” The boy turned and addressed his sister, asking for her to join him. Sylvyan smiled brightly and skipped over, noticing the bag for the first time. The atmosphere suddenly grew tense.  
  
He lifted it. Turned it over. The items spilled onto the worktop.  
  
To some people, jewels and rubies and valuable pendants filled their dreams of wealth and happiness. But the boy had much lower standards.  
  
Food. Packets of pasta, rolls of cheap bread, a tub of butter, some sugar, frozen vegetables, a couple of ready meals, a rare packet of sweets that had become a luxury to them. Simple items to most people, but to the siblings anything that wasn’t out of a tin seemed to be 5-star-restaurant quality now. He tried _so hard_ to provide for his little sister, often neglecting his own health and needs to do so, but gradually the cupboards were becoming barer and barer and it was hard to sleep at night knowing that he was completely stuck. He’d rather die than watch his sister go hungry- he’d promised himself that long ago- and seeing the grin on her face now had made the previous exhaustion and fear so worth it. Seeing the look of joy grace her features banished the tingle of guilt that always came with shoplifting (even though he _needed_ these things).  
  
“We have to hide this though, doll. Can’t let mama or papa see it, can we?” He smiled sadly and gathered it up again, ready to shove it under his bed. They’d eat the perishables first and stretch everything else out for as long as they could.  
  
He paused to look in the mirror on the way to his room. The gel in his hair was doing a poor job and most of it hung loose in his eyes, but even through the inky strands he could see the yellow and blue splatters that lay in a faded bruise around his cheekbone. Black circles smudged under his eyes showed the exhaustion that lay bone-deep, and the scratches from the bush were stark white against brown skin. Otabek Altin looked like a shell of the man he once was.  
  
Their parents would be home soon, and he prayed that they wouldn’t wake Sylvyan up with their drunken shouting. She was up so late already, silly girl. Waiting for her big brother to return home.  
  
Big brother and protector. It broke his heart that this is what it had come to.  
  
But despite the fear and the exhaustion, despite the anger and despair that lay hidden under a layer of numbness, Otabek and Sylvyan slept peacefully that night, curled up in his bed. At least they wouldn’t be hungry for a few days.  
  
Have to take it one step at a time, he supposed. That was all he could do.

**Yuri**

Viktor was late, like he always was, and a certain blond Russian was trying to contain his rage by pacing across the kitchen. Damn Katsudon had told him to stop about 10 minutes ago, complaining about the repetitive movement being ‘dizzying’ or some bullshit. Yuri simply glared at him.  
  
“Where the fuck _is_ he! He said he’d be here by noon to take me to get new skates, but surprise surprise, the lesser-spotted Nikiforov is yet again gone incognito.”  
  
“What happened to your old ones?” Yuuri didn’t bother scolding the teen for his language. They all had given up on that long ago. Besides, Yuri had seemed weirdly on edge these past few days, which had come with an increase in curses and insults, therefore they had all started to become used to it. The Japanese man frowned slightly all the same.  
  
“The blades aren’t as sharp as I like them to be, and I cracked the heel slightly when I slammed against the wall a few days back.” Displeasure laced his tone, whether it was from annoyance from the question or embarrassment from remembering the dreadful jump, Yuuri couldn’t quite figure out. He just nodded and went back to reading his newspaper, leaving the other boy sighing and pacing and checking his phone every two minutes.  
  
No-one knew what had gotten into him. It had begun about a week ago, and they had noticed through the decrease in successful jumps and the increase in mood swings. Surprisingly, Yakov was the first person who said anything and raised the question of “what’s got into you, boy?”, and after that introduction everyone else suddenly became a lot more sensitive to the changes. Naturally, Yuri shrugged it off and insisted that he was fine, and not even Viktor was stupid enough to push him.  
  
If they did manage to get him to snap, they would find out that it wasn’t something that was happening to Yuri, but rather what _wasn’t_ happening to Yuri. More specifically: his best friend wasn’t messaging him and had barely talked to him in an entire god damn week and the blond was struggling to decide whether to be pissed off or concerned. He ultimately settled on a headache-inducing combination of both and had got into the habit of checking every social media Otabek was on to see if there were any changes.  
  
“Stupid moron.” Yuri muttered at his phone, pacing up and down the white tiles still. Katsudon would assume he was talking about Viktor. In reality, he was staring at the ‘offline’ icon on Otabek’s skype and trying to fight down the urge to throw his phone at a wall for the third time that week. How the screen hadn’t yet smashed into millions of fragile pieces was a mystery to Yuri, but not as mysterious as the question of _where the fuck was Otabek._  
  
Did he not want to be friends anymore? Was he getting bored of replying to the cat videos and complaints that he sent over Instagram messenger every day? Had he found someone new, someone better, someone closer to home who he could actually hang out with in person?  
  
Deep down he knew he was being irrational, knew he was being selfish, that Beka probably had stuff going on. But Yuri Plisetsky was not a rational person- and especially not when he was so _fucking pissed off._  
  
“Yurio! Sorry I’m late!”  
  
Viktor’s cheerful voice wasn’t helping his current mood either.  
  
“Where were you! You said you’d be back by 12 and you’re 40 minutes late! Apologise to me right now!”  
  
“Yurio, I said sorry-“  
  
“Sorry isn’t good enough! I’m done, fuck you, I’m going to my room.”  
  
Viktor and Yuuri shared a confused look as the smaller boy shoved past with undisguised aggression and winced together at the sound of him angrily stomping up the stairs. What confused Viktor most was that Yuri was demanding something he already gave- an apology- but Yuuri, being the more aware person, had already moved on and was trying to understand why his mood had changed so quickly.  
Hormones? Something more than that, surely?  
  
“We should talk to him. Later. Something’s going on that he’s not telling us about. He’s an angry kid, but this is just weird.”  
  
Viktor hummed in agreement, planning to ask Yurio about it during lunch. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work peeling potatoes.  
  
Lunch was finished by half past one and consisted of potato salad, topped with homemade coleslaw and some green leaves that Yuri couldn’t name. Viktor had insisted on eating only organic, homemade things recently, declaring confidently that all the best athletes were eating nothing but vegetables and weird sauces that looked like they _might_ taste good, but it was a risk and a gamble as to whether they’d be a fantastic new culinary experience or make you sit on the toilet for a few days. Yuri and Katsudon exchanged looks of uncertainty, and reluctantly tucked in as the other Russian began to list all of the best vegan ingredients for what he had planned for dinner.  
  
“- and don’t get me started on tomato sauce in a jar. How lazy!” The silver-haired man shook his head with disapproval, then turned his gaze on the slouched figure at the opposite end of the kitchen table. “Speaking of lazy, how are you, Yurio?”  
  
“ _Lazy?_ I’ll have you know I get up way before you every morning, old man!” Yuri snapped. The insult had successfully made him forget about his previous anger at Viktor. Now was the perfect opportunity.  
  
“Yuri, is there anything you want to… talk about? You really haven’t been yourself lately. You seem….” Yuuri made an elaborate gesture with the hand that wasn’t holding a fork deep in potato and mayonnaise. “-even more angry than usual. We’re worried.”  
  
The silence stretched out between them for a few moments while Yuri frowned into his bowel. On one hand, it was none of their god damn business how he was feeling and what was going on between him and his friend. If Otabek wanted to ignore his texts, then fine, he could be an obnoxious asshole. Yuri didn’t care. All the more time for him to practice and prepare for his next gold medal.  
  
On the other hand.... Fuck it. Who else did he have to rant to? If they wanted to know so badly then they were going to be very disappointed by the small matter of him losing a friend.  
  
“Otabek.” He offered, surprising the other two men at how easily he told them. Every other time they’d be proud at him for opening up, but now the name of the Kazakh skater just created feelings of uncertainty. “He hasn’t talked to me for a while. Not properly, at least. He replies with one-word answers and then goes offline for days. When he does come back on he has some bullshit excuse that he was busy working or taking care of his sister, but who works for 3 days at a time? If he didn’t want to be friends, then he should just say so.” By the end of the rant Yuri had thrown his fork angrily into the bowl and his voice had risen to a shout, Viktor was leaning forward with a frown on his face, and Yuuri had his eyes narrowed as if trying to calculate something. None of them knew what to say.  
  
“Yuri, of course he wants to be your friend. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. When was the last time you spoke to him at all?”  
  
“A couple days ago. I asked him where he was, he said at the rink, and sent me a selfie to prove it. As if he owed me some proof. It was weird.” The teen looked as confused as the other two felt, and fished his phone out of his pocket. He had saved the picture to his camera roll into a folder named ‘embarrassing photos to blackmail Beka’, where he stored all unflattering shots that the Kazakh sent. Not that there were many of them. Otabek was annoyingly photogenic.  
  
“Can I see it? The picture that is?” Yuuri spoke for the first time since his rant and tentatively reached a hand out for the blond’s phone. Yuri only hesitated for a second before selecting the picture and handing it over.  
  
The silence that stretched was made worse by the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. Yuuri’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and moved a hand to pinch the screen. Zooming in on something, then zooming out again, then swiping left to see the previous photo, then swiping back again. As if he was carrying out an in-depth investigation on the face of Otabek Altin. Kinda creepy, if Yuri was being honest. He was about to ask for his phone back when Yuuri leaned over to show Viktor, who immediately mirrored the frown that had slowly settled on the Japanese man’s brow. The whole scene was weird and unsettling and Yuri couldn’t take it anymore.  
  
“Look, I know it was taken at an unflattering angle, but you don’t have to stare at him. Pretty rude if I do say so myself. Now give me my phone back.”  
  
“Yuri, come ‘round here.”  
  
Something about the coldness and sincerity in Yuuri’s tone made his demand hard to refuse, so reluctantly, even though he was annoyed at being told what to do, Yuri pushed himself out of his seat with a sigh and joined the other two to crowd around his phone. All he saw was the same photo he had pulled up previously: Otabek leaning against the wall of his skate rink, looking into the camera that was positioned as if he was taking a picture from above. The angle made his forehead look unproportionally large. His hair fell into his eyes instead of being slicked back like it usually was; maybe that’s what they found odd? That the great Hero of Kazakhstan had ran out of hair gel?  
  
“What? You guys are weirdos. Give me back my-“ Yuri reached out to grab it, but Yuuri held it further away.  
  
“Wait. Look.”  
  
And he pinched the photo again to zoom in on Otabek’s features.  
  
“There. You can’t see it too well. He left his hair down and took the picture at a weird angle on purpose.”  
  
That same silence again. The clocked ticked mockingly. Yuuri assumed that the teen didn’t understand what he was getting at, so he thought it might be best to fill in the gaps himself.  
  
“He has a black eye.”


	2. Sometimes I Think This Cycle Never Ends, We Slide From Top To Bottom and We Turn and Climb Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey yall. I updated this as quick as I could :^) It's not gonna be as slow burn as I previously thought otherwise the chapter content will end up getting repetitive, but it's still gonna be a long fic. Anyway I hope you enjoy!! I lov u all. As always trigger warnings apply (stated in 1st chapter and in the tags).

**Otabek**

“Beka!”

A whisper too close to his ear, a stream of sunlight spilling through the curtain too close to his face. The four hours of sleep he had gotten were not enough to push away the headache that had forced its way into his brain last night- and, oh god, now it had manifested into a migraine. He had too many things to do today, too many places to go and people to avoid and jobs to finish before they shouted at him again. A migraine would only slow him down. In his half-conscious state, he made a mental note to choke down some aspirin later.

Sylvyan had passed out on his bed just before midnight, and Otabek didn’t have the heart to move her. He could use the company anyway. So he shrugged off his jacket and spent 5 minutes gathering the energy to pull his jeans off, slipped into some jogging bottoms and wrapped himself around her underneath the heavy duvet. Bed was safe, they had decided. Nothing could go wrong if they were protected by soft blankets and pillows.

Except he was proven wrong, yet again, when their parents fell through the front door only an hour later, shouting and drunkenly singing and paying no mind to their sleeping children. Well, formerly-sleeping children; Sylvyan was clinging to Otabek’s arms with her head buried in his chest, as if trying to drown out the sounds of plates smashing as they threw themselves around the kitchen. In that moment, as his sister sighed and rubbed her eyes, Otabek hated his parents.

They could hurt him all they wanted, they could call him names and tease him and humiliate him. He’d grown numb to it all now, to be honest. But as soon as they started impacting his sister there was going to be a problem.

So he had pushed himself out of bed, fought off the onslaught of dizziness and nausea, and angrily descended the stairs and greeted the intoxicated adults at the kitchen table. They said something to him, probably swore, maybe called him an idiot. Beka hadn’t listened.

“You’ve woken Sylvyan up. She has school tomorrow.” Eight words, laced with all of the bitterness he could muster in his current state of fatigue and hopelessness.

“School? She’s still going then? Thought she’d be a drop-out too by now. Especially under your care.” The fact that his mother forced herself to sound sober just to insult him hurt more than the actual words. She could put in the effort, she could add a smirk at the end of her sentence and cock her head to challenge him- yet she only put this effort in when she was being horrible. That was a new development he had to train himself to brush away.

After that he’d dragged himself back upstairs and stroked his sisters’ hair until she fell asleep. He had laid there, listening to their arguments and choking back tears once or twice, before finally joining his sister in sleep during the early hours of the morning.

“Beka!”

The whisper had risen in volume and dragged Otabek into the shallow end of consciousness. Still partly asleep and dead to most of the world around him, but awake enough to begin mentally listing the things he had to do today, when he was going to do them, and how to centre them around the times when his sister was at school or when his parents were away so he could avoid them as much as possible.

Avoiding them was the key to not gaining a new bruise, he had discovered quickly. When they woke up in the morning (or mid-afternoon depending on how much they had drunk the night before), he would already be at the rink practicing his programs and ignoring the concerned glare from his coach. He picked Sylvyan up from school at 3pm and took her down to the rink for a couple hours; she enjoyed watching him jump and spin and occasionally he would manage to coax her onto the ice with him, holding her hand and picking her up when her legs got too shaky. They got back home by 6pm, when he would gather something for dinner and thank Allah that his parents were at work by this point.

Leaving his sister alone during the evening broke his heart, but if he didn’t then he would have no money and no way to look after her. He had managed to convince the owners of the nightclubs he DJ’d at to let him leave before midnight. A few hours’ work was miniscule in comparison to what he was used to doing… but money was money.

The days of staying up until 4am playing music to drunken 20 year olds were long gone. He ached for them, he couldn’t deny that, he ached for those days when everything was tolerable and better. His parents never used to be this bad, but then…. Well. Thinking about him made his heart hurt.

“Beka!”

A shake to the shoulder accompanied the sudden shout that was directed right into his ear and he was sitting up, jerking away, looking around wildly for the source of danger-

And instead found Sylvyan pouting with her arms crossed, looking more than a little bit annoyed.

“We’re late for school! The clock says ‘8’ on it, when it usually says ‘6’! You snoozed for too long!” She glared with all the malice she could muster and tugged on her older brothers sleeve in an attempt to pull him out of bed.

“What? Oh, fuck.” They’d slept through the alarm- how did they sleep through the alarm?- and now she was going to be late. He’d have to lie and say she had the dentist or something.

“That’s a naughty word, mister. You have to put a penny in the swear jar.”

“Sorry. Do you want a shower now? You didn’t have one last night.” Come to think of it, he didn’t either. The thought didn’t cross his mind. After running like a lunatic through streets and nearly collapsing on the pavement, he probably needed a shower more than the annoyed 7-year-old who was still glaring at him for waking up late and now for swearing.

“I think you need a shower first, and you need to shave because your face is spikey and keeps prickling my nose. And your hair has that yucky gel stuff in it. And you have dirt all under your nails! You’re letting yourself go.” She supressed a smile and shook her head in mock-disapproval, which then turned into a grin when Otabek ruffled her hair. God, he loved her.

Without his sister to keep him going he would have given up long ago.

She hopped off the bed and went into her room to gather her school clothes, giving Otabek a few moments alone to rub his eyes and stretch his legs and check his phone notifications. He couldn’t help but wince with guilt at the sight of the screen.

 **yuri-plisetsky:** beka

 **yuri-plisetsky:** asshole

 **yuri-plisetsky:** answer me or im flying to kazakhstan to kick ur ass

_Please do. I could really use a friend._

**otabek-altin:** I’m so sorry Yura. I didn’t get in until late. Is everything okay?

It was only 5am where Yuri was, and Otabek was pretty sure that Fridays were his day off, meaning he wouldn’t be awake for a few hours. He planned to catch up with him later, maybe even Skype if he had time. Neglecting their friendship was never something he had wanted to do. It was just difficult replying to texts when your sister wanted to be fed and your parents had locked the door so you had to sleep outside that night.

With a small sigh, he set his phone on the bedside table to charge, and then dug in the laundry basket for clothes that were acceptably clean to be worn again. Laundry was something else he needed to do, though the long task of washing and drying and ironing and putting away sounded exhausting, so he had left it for too long and was now regretting it. He’d put a load in before taking Sylvyan to school. It should be finished by the time he came back, which would leave him just enough time to get it dried before his parents would be up.

Hot water of the shower felt simultaneously luxurious and painful against his skin. He had turned the temperature up higher than he usually would, craving the stinging sensation and the sight of skin turning red and protesting in mild pain. Electricity was the one thing he didn’t have to worry about; his parents couldn’t live without gas and electric, so had done their duty of paying for the bare minimum. Otherwise they would leave their kids to fight for themselves while they avoided buying food by eating out and spending all disposable income on alcohol. Otabek laughed bitterly at the thought.

A full-length mirror stood opposite and gathered condensation like a spider’s web would gather dust, however not _enough_ condensation to fully blur the sight of Otabek’s body. Summer had only just ended and his skin still bore a rich tan, which was emphasised by the stark white bathroom tiles behind him. At least that made him look healthier. Otherwise it was clear that he had lost weight, clear that he was holding himself strangely due to aching muscles, clear that something wasn’t okay.

Through the steam his bruises were paint splatters; blues and yellows and purples and reds, embroidered on his jaw and shoulders, his chest and hips, probably on his back too.

Unlike paint splatters and embroidery, they weren’t beautiful. They weren’t pleasing to look at, weren’t ‘tragically alluring’. They just hurt when he poked them and hurt when he thought about them.

The one under his eye could be pushed away and blamed on clumsiness, his coach and his sister would buy that. He would just have to hope and pray that they didn’t see the other ones- otherwise people would call social services and the police and Sylvyan would be taken away from him. That’s what they had said, his parents, _“you dare speak a word to anyone, boy, and she’ll be shoved in an orphanage and your one reason to live will be halfway across the country”._

But they were wrong about one thing: Otabek had two reasons to live. The other was in the form of an angry snow-haired Russian who probably felt very neglected and pissed off.

“I wish I could tell you, Yuri. I fucking wish.” He muttered at the mirror and switched the water off.

 

 **Yuri**  

“So, what, he fell over and smashed his face into the ice? He walked into a door handle? You’re making a big deal out of nothing Katsudon, and you know it!” Yuri all but shouted at the Japanese man opposite, who was tenderly rubbing his wrist from when the teen had forcefully grabbed his phone back. What was Katsudon getting at, anyway? That Otabek got into fights as a Sunday hobby, and that was enough of a reason to demand that they shouldn’t be friends anymore? Not on Yuri’s watch.

“Yes, I know, but all I’m saying is that this might have something to do with why he hasn’t been talking to you as much. Ask him about the black eye next time he messages you.”

Yuri rolled his eyes and grumbled at that, not being able to deny that maybe the other Yuuri was on to something. Still, he didn’t like the idea of those two idiots suggesting that Beka was untrustworthy. Hell, he probably got that bruise from defending someone in one of those nightclubs he DJ’d at, or from protecting a stranger from a creepy guy in an alleyway. Otabek was tough and strong and cool and should be wearing his bruise with pride. This sudden surge of admiration for his friend was a pleasant change from the anger and annoyance Yuri had been feeling towards him for the past week.

But he knew this good mood would soon be spoiled by the two idiots he shared a house with, so he quickly left the room and went upstairs to collapse on his bed, kicking his shoes off carelessly and ignoring the dull thud as they fell to the floor. Tomorrow was Friday, his day off, and he was going to fucking make the most of it.

Yakov was pushing him even harder than he usually did, which was saying something- Yakov didn’t go gentle on him anyway, but now he was taking his even higher expectations out on his youngest skater. He even made him come in on his birthday. His birthday! While other people celebrated their 16th by relaxing or partying, Yuri was being shouted at for over-rotating a quad toe loop and for getting distracted by his phone. Apparently breaking world records wasn’t enough for the old geezer.

Otabek had apologised profusely for not being able to visit for the day and for not getting him a physical present. Yuri had loved the playlist he had made regardless, and now used it to help him sleep. It wasn’t full of rock music or punk remixes like he had expected it to be. Instead Otabek had remembered that one time Yuri complained about not being able to go to sleep easily and had created a playlist of soft, gentle, mellow songs that helped the blond calm down and relax when he wanted to do nothing more than throw his phone at a wall.

That was why they were best friends, he supposed. Otabek made him feel better without words. Viktor was a nightmare; he’d demand answers and even try to hug him sometimes. Yuuri was slightly better, never going past “we’re here to listen but I think you should open up”, but still annoying enough to make Yuri’s blood pressure rise into dangerous territory.

Beka would send him pictures of tumblr-edited anger management posters and maybe find a new cat-centred Instagram for Yuri to check out. In that moment, as he was recalling these memories, Yuri’s mood did a complete 180 and he was sad again. He missed him.

So it was undeniably surprising when he woke up to a new message the next day, and Yuri audibly groaned at the sight of it, despite feeling relieved that he even got a message in the first place. Otabek had asked him if _he_ was okay? Could the man stop being considerate for _thirty fucking seconds?_

 **yuri-plisetsky:** im fine moron. thanks for taking time out of ur busy schedule to answer me.

It was another surprise when Otabek replied just moments later. Yuri would have to take advantage of this and get as many words in before he disappeared again for god knew how long.

 **otabek-altin:** I’m really sorry. I’ve had stuff to do. Please don’t be mad.

 _“Weird.”_ Yuri thought to himself with a frown. _“’Please don’t be mad’? When has he ever been affected by my shitty moods?”_ Texting wasn’t getting him anywhere, so Yuri sent him a quick “skype?” and hoped that his friend wasn’t busy doing…. Whatever he had to do so urgently all the time. The third surprise of the morning came in the form of a skype notification that told him he had an incoming call. It wasn’t video, only voice, which Yuri accepted gratefully since he had just woken up and looked like shit.

 _“Hey.”_ Beka’s voice sounded rough and tired. What time was it in Almaty- 10am maybe? Was he still tired?

“Good god, you’re alive. Cryptid spotted.” He hoped Otabek could hear the eye-roll in his voice (which sounded equally rough, but hey, it was 7am and he had woke up 5 minutes ago).

_“Spotted? We’re voice calling.”_

Bastard. Monotonously sassy as ever.

“Whatever, shut up. I’ve got questions and you better answer them.”

_“I thought you wanted me to shut up?”_

“Otabek Altin. I’m already pissed at you so don’t push it. Now you better fucking tell me what was with the bruise on your face in that last picture you sent me, and why you keep disappearing like a weirdo. Yuuri and Viktor are convinced that you’re part of a gang or some shit.”

The silence on the other end of the line was unexpected giving the Kazakh’s quick-fire replies just moments earlier, making Yuri almost regret his bluntness and insensitivity. Then Beka sighed and sat down, an action made obvious by the background noise and a small grunt that escaped the older mans’ lips.

_“Well, I’m definitely not in a gang if that makes you feel any better.”_

Yuri almost hung up with exasperation, and declared: “Stop fucking avoiding the questions!”

_“Yura, I’m fine. The bruise was from… a bad jump. I went to do a quad but my knee gave out and I face planted the ice instead. I’ve just been busy juggling skating and looking after Sylvyan, that’s all. My parents are working a lot. _ _”_ _ _

Those sentences contained the most words Otabek had ever said at any one time, as if he was desperate to convince Yuri that he was okay and stop the blond from being annoyed at him. Still, it was something, and definitely enough to diminish the feeling of curiosity and mild worry that had started to blossom in his chest.

“That’s it? You fell over? Then why try so desperately to hide the bruise?”

_“They’re not a big deal. It’s okay.”_

‘They’re’? Plural? Did he make a habit out of throwing himself at the ground?

At least now a couple of his questions had answers. Katsudon had been worrying over nothing, yet again, and Viktor’s overdramatic fantasies of Otabek being in the Kazakh mafia were nothing but that: overdramatic fantasies.

“Does Kazakhstan even have a mafia?”

_“What?”_

“Nothing. Thinking out loud. Next time don’t be a fucking idiot and use the ice as a landing pad, okay? It’s pretty hard stuff. And cold. If you haven’t noticed.”

_“Yuri Plisetsky: Sherlock Holmes of the 21st century.”_

“Fuck off.”

They chatted idly for a few more minutes, Yuri feeling a lot better now his friend was talking to him. He had missed these dumb conversations, which consisted of everything from taking the piss out of JJ to debating the best breed of housecat (which Yuri insisted was Ragdoll, and Beka counteracted with the proposal of the Selkirk Rex. A quick Google search made Yuri want one more than anything else).

Neither of them wanted to be the one to hang up, but in the end it didn’t matter because it was Viktor who decided for them by screaming up the stairs that breakfast was ready. Yuri reluctantly said goodbye, not looking forward to whatever vegan/organic/no-unnatural-flavourings excuse for a meal that Viktor had threw together. They might as well be eating grass. Katsudon seemed to agree by the way he was frowning at the muesli on his spoon as if it were radioactive.

“I talked to Beks. The bruise _was_ from falling over, thank you very much.” Yuri stated obnoxiously through a mouthful of rabbit food, flipping Viktor off while he was at it, who only smiled in return.

“Ah, that’s good. Is he okay? Did you find out why he’s been away for so long?” Katsudon asked as he attempted to put the rest of the food in the bin while Viktor wasn’t looking. Obviously he loved and adored his fiancé…. With the exception of his culinary abilities. Nothing could beat his mother’s cooking.

Yuri narrowed his eyes at the intrusive questions, but muttered “skating and looking after his sister” as an explanation.

“He said that we could video call tomorrow, so I’ll ask more then. Might talk to Sylvyan too. Little kids can’t keep secrets.” That was a fact that he had learned from himself. Even now he wasn’t great at keeping secrets- any gossip that came from Viktor or Yuuri would be passed straight on to Otabek at the next availability, and they would laugh about it together. In fact, Yuri had a folder of blackmail material he could share with Beka during said call.

Ironically, his phone pinged with an Instagram message from Otabek just as they were discussing him. Yuri used this as an excuse to vacate from the table and the half-eaten bowl of ‘breakfast’.

 **otabek-altin:** im sorry, I cant video 2morrow. Got to take sylv to a school club. message u later?

That was their plans cancelled, then. Yuri rolled his eyes and send a thumbs-up emoji in return, feeling disappointed and trying to suppress the wave of anger that he could feel building up. Fucking Sylvya and her school clubs and-

School club?

Tomorrow was Saturday.

Tomorrow was Saturday and Otabek never texted in abbreviations and incorrect grammar.

_You’re acting so weird, Beka. What’s going on?_


	3. There Is Whiskey In The Water, And There Is Death Upon The Vine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok firstly thanks so so much for all of the support you guys are angels  
> This chapter is a little longer cause i got carried away rip. I like each chapter to be about 3.5k~ words, this one was 5.3k~ I think, but I'll try to keep them a tiny bit shorter in the future.  
> The same content warnings apply, however please note that this chapter contains more descriptive mentions of violence, bruises and blood. There is angst in Yuri's section as well as Otabek's because im a mess  
> hope you enjoy!!

**Otabek**

There were few things in his life that his parents hadn’t ruined, Otabek concluded. From abstract concepts, such as his self-esteem and motivation, to material objects like the presents he received from fans, his parents would find a way to tear him down. Otabek was trying to shield his sister from all of that, was trying to keep her head held high with the determination that he had lost long ago. But that meant putting himself in the firing range of their insults and cruelty.

And now they were affecting someone who lived 4000km away- his best friend. After who knew how long he had went without facetiming Yuri, they had finally made plans to skype after he got home from practice tomorrow.

His parents had ruined that too, of course, with the grandeur statement (which was more forceful than grand, admittedly) that they were having friends over all of Saturday, and that if him and Sylvyan didn’t stay out of their way then there was going to be a problem. Otabek didn’t need telling twice; he had unfortunately been forced to meet their friends on previous occasions and when they weren’t too intoxicated to talk they would be telling him how “beautiful” he was and that they could “put him to good use”. Staying away would be the safest option.

So obviously he had to cancel on Yuri, and obviously the blond teen would be pissed off beyond all recognition, rightfully so. Otabek could only hope and pray that he would forgive him, however there wasn’t enough time to worry about that. He had to put his sister’s safety over an annoyed Plisetsky.

“Baby”, he whispered to her that night as he tucked her into bed, “we have to go out tomorrow. We can stay at the rink, we’ll work on teaching you to skate, yeah? Mother and father are having their friends over, and we both know what they’re like”. He stroked her hair as he explained the situation to her, trying to make it sound like a fun day out rather than an escape plan. Maybe he’d be able to spare some precious money to buy her a kid’s meal at McDonald’s – they hadn’t eaten out for months, and although a fast food restaurant wasn’t exactly luxury he knew she’d be over the moon.

“Can I wear your jacket? The rink is too cold.” Sylvyan mumbled sleepily. She had gotten into the habit of wearing her big brother’s clothes recently. The familiar scent of him comforted her, Otabek supposed. Her favourite article was the long cashmere scarf he had brought back when things weren’t so bad and he actually had control over his own bank account.

“Of course.” He replied with a soft smile, but she was already asleep.

When he woke the next day at 7am, the foul feeling in his gut immediately told him something was wrong. Usually his parents would be passed out by now after spending all night drinking, however instead he could hear the faint sound of chair legs scraping over worn linoleum and chatting coming from downstairs. He remained still, silent, barely daring to breathe, listening closely to what was going on.

The bailiffs weren’t here again, surely? All major bills had been paid this month, Otabek had checked and double checked scrutinously as he did every time the pay date rolled around. His father’s fierce aggression came in handy when it came to scaring the bailiffs away on the previous occasions they had shown up. But it was impossible for them to be here now, so the figures downstairs remained a mystery. Unless…

“Shit.” He groaned and sat up, wishing he had passed out on Sylvyan’s bedroom floor like he nearly had done. It took mere moments to tug on his skating kit which consisted of a black t-shirt, his _Team Kazakhstan_ jacket and jogging bottoms, and then he was quietly tip-toeing across the floorboards of the hallway, keeping close to the edges where the furniture weighed them down and eliminated the chance of any squeaking. Sad that he knew all of these tips that allowed him to navigate around his parents in the safest way possible, though they were undeniable life-savers.

“Princess, wake up. We have to go now.” He nudged his sister while trying to conceal his desperation and relax the frown on his face. She squeezed her eyes shut before opening them, long lashes framing brown eyes that crinkled with a smile as she was greeted by her favourite person in the world.

“Beka?” Sylvyan asked and sat up. Her hair was a mess since Otabek hadn’t tied it back after her shower as he usually did. Thick black hair fell in a tangled waterfall down to her waist, a slight wave denting it here and there from where it was used to being pulled back into the French braids Otabek did for her before school. He would get her dressed and braid her hair, they would brush their teeth and make their way to the rink. Breakfast would have to wait until they arrived.

“Come on, doll.” Those were the last words he uttered to her as she pulled on some clothes- Otabek’s leather jacket included- and made their way to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth and tried to suppress the occasional wince as the hairbrush tugged through the tangles that came as a result of tossing and turning with damp hair. After Otabek had brushed his teeth and haphazardly ran a gel-coated hand through his own hair, he turned to his little sister again and gently gripped her shoulders, a careful gesture but one that told her that he needed her attention.

“Okay, we have to quietly go downstairs. They’ll probably hear us, but that’s okay, just stay behind me and I’ll look after you. Don’t say anything to them. With luck they’ll…. Nevermind, lets go.”

 _With luck they’ll still be hungover_ was what he wanted to say, but he was trying to keep Sylvya ignorant to the horrors of alcohol. She was a very bright 7-year-old, perhaps too mature for her age, so of course she knew that her parents weren’t as loving as other parents and were most likely the source of the bruises that blossomed across her big brother’s face after an especially heated argument. He wanted to protect her all the same, which is why he just shook his head and took her hand and tried to pretend everything was okay as they descended the stairs.

The feeling of dread was confirmed as they got close to the front door: their parents’ friends were already here. They must have arrived early in the morning when their parents usually came back, and somehow didn’t wake Otabek up. Either they were too drunk to do much more than throw themselves on the couches or Otabek slept particularly heavily last night. The latter was more likely due to how exhausted he was.

The front door was metres away, just a few steps and they would be free from the teasing remarks of the drunken adults whose voices floated from the kitchen, just a few steps and the dread could be lifted and-

“Atabek! Little Atabek Altin, in front of me at last!” The kitchen door swung open suddenly and faces turned towards them, faces of middle aged men and women flushed red with alcohol.

Approximately 10 of them including their parents stood leaning against counters, slumped on the kitchen chairs, sitting on the floor. It looked like a disgusting cult meeting, Otabek observed, a feeling of nausea settling to accompany the dread.

With a strong arm, he held Sylvyan behind him and desperately avoided eye contact with the man who was grinning down at him with shark teeth. Correcting the pronunciation of his name would be suicide.

He was perhaps 6 feet tall and covered in various tattoos, patches of ink that snaked from the tips of his fingers and up onto his balding head. Even though his face bore no body modifications, the gaps in his teeth and lines on his forehead did a great job at making the man look completely terrifying. Stains that Otabek hoped was only alcohol covered his white vest. But even amongst all of that, it was his eyes that stood out most; piercing blue eyes that refused to move from Otabek’s face, eyes that differenced so vastly from the brown irises that most of Kazakhstan possessed.

Without saying anything, Otabek nodded in acknowledgement and took a step back. The only positive to his parents being consistently drunk was that their reaction speeds were slowed significantly, so he hoped the same would apply to this man, and he turned around to usher Sylvyan out the door-

And then a strong, sweaty hand clamped around his wrist and _squeezed._ Had he been more prepared, Otabek would have calmly turned around and asked the stranger to let go, but the action took him completely by surprise and he yelped in pain instead. Instantly he could feel his left hand becoming numb due to the cut off circulation, and the feeling of nails digging crescents into his flesh overpowered his fight-or-flight instincts. He stood there, paralyzed, forced to stare into the blue eyes of this dangerous man.

The feeling of his sister tugging on his sleeve seemed miles away. He hated having this reaction to being hurt; he wished he could push his attackers away and stand up for himself, yet he was constantly reduced to a nervous wreck whose mind went blank and eyes glassed over. Probably because it was usually his parents who were hurting him, and he’d never hurt them back. He wasn’t a monster.

“Your mother said she had a son, Atabek. Star athlete, Hero of Kazakhstan, barely five foot seven, so very, very soft.” The man said, and Otabek could barely make out his words for how badly he was slurring. Hunger filled his eyes as he took a step closer, close enough for the scent of Vodka that clouded around him like flies around a corpse to invade Otabek’s nose and almost make him gag.

That was enough to clear the fog in his mind, that sourly vile stench. With a frown Otabek tugged his wrist away, forcing back the wince as the man’s nails raked down his flesh due to the tightness of his grip, and he took a safe step back.

“We will be going now.” He said with all the confidence he could muster. Sylvyan had already opened the front door, and they stepped outside and began a steady jog down the road once it was closed again. No way they would follow, Otabek knew that logically- but the feeling of his wrist pulsing and the fear that had caught in his throat lead to him urging Sylvyan on, down the hill and around the corner to the bus station, only slowing once they were safely sat on the first bus that made its way to the rink.

“Beks, what did that scary white man want? Is your arm poorly?” Sylvyan whispered into his shoulder, prodding at the bruise that was already leaving a splatter of blue and purple on Otabek’s wrist. It looked exactly like a clenched handprint, the Kazakh dully noted.

“He was… Asking who I was, baby. He grabbed my arm a bit too hard, but I’m fine.” He tilted his arm to hide the line of torn skin and nail marks from her view. “But promise me, you can’t be around that man, okay? He might hurt you.” Teaching his sister about the horrors of the people he dealt with daily was something he loathed doing… But better safe than sorry.

“Like he hurt you?”

“Yes. Listen, don’t tell Umar about this. He’ll only worry.”

“Okay, Beka.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek before snuggling into his shoulder again.

Umar was Otabek’s coach, a half-Arabic, half-Kazakh formerly famous figure skater who had known Otabek since he was young. He was lovely for the most part, often looking after him when he was a child and even teaching him some Arabic on occasion. However he could be very strict, especially when it came to schedules and behaviour outside of the rink, so he definitely didn’t approve of his best student’s hobby of DJ-ing and vocalised this at every given opportunity. Still, he had a soft spot for Sylvyan and Otabek gradually found himself relaxing as the bus drew closer to the rink.

Any remaining worried evaporated as he stepped onto the ice, Sylvyan perched on his shoulders in a way that was most definitely against health and safety regulations. It was cliché, but the ice was home to him and as he skated and held on tight to his sister’s ankles, he managed a small smile.

Truthfully he didn’t intent on working on his program too much today. Maybe he’d manage some step-sequences since they were easy to do with a child atop him, but jumps were out of the question unless he could successfully teach Sylvyan to skate on her own. Her legs went at all different angles and her sense of balance left something to be desired, therefore the possibility of getting some alone time on the ice was little to none. He didn’t mind though. He never did.

Breakfast was a couple of slices of toast he brought at the small café next to the rink, and after that the two of them spent a few hours gliding around the ice and singing to the songs that came from Otabek’s phone that sat on the rink wall. His coach came in at some point and nodded a greeting, not hiding his frown at the sight of Sylvyan sitting 5 and a half foot up in the air, but surprisingly he didn’t say anything. When the clock ticked towards 7pm Otabek decided it was probably safe to go home. Besides, the last bus was scheduled for 7:15 and he didn’t fancy walking back again.

“Otabek. Come here.” Of course, his coach wouldn’t let him slip out unnoticed. Otabek put Sylvyan back on the floor and motioned for her to stay.

“Umar,” he begun, approaching his coach with an apologetic look, “I’m sorry I didn’t practice much today, I’ll come early tomorrow I promise-“

“Beka, shut up. I don’t mind. That’s not what I wanted to see you for.” The man was as blunt as ever, which didn’t take Otabek by surprise anymore. He stopped talking and awaited the lecture with a small frown.

“Listen. I’m worried. You haven’t been yourself lately, no? I’m sure you know that too.”

“I’m fine, I’m just tired-“

“Tired? I didn’t know tiredness lead to huge handprint-shaped bruises around your wrist.”

 _Fuck_. Otabek’s mouth snapped shut and he could _feel_ the blood that rushed to his face, painting him red with shame and guilt. His coach simply raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms as if awaiting an explanation.

“I- it’s fine. It’s nothing. Some crazed fan grabbed me, that’s all.” His voice faded to a mumble and he cursed himself for being so useless at lying. His coach wouldn’t believe that, what was he thinking?

“Well, they had an iron grip, clearly.”

“Yeah. They were persistent.”

“Otabek, is everything okay at home?” There it was, the question that Otabek simultaneously dreaded and craved with everything he had. His heart seemed to skip a beat as he stared into the narrowed eyes of his childhood friend. He could admit everything now, he could pour his heart out and weep and his coach would let him stay around his house, everything would be okay and safe.

But Umar had a wife and kids, their house couldn’t fit Otabek and his sister, he didn’t want to be a burden. They would only end up calling social services and he’d never see Sylvyan again.

So instead of having a breakdown in his coaches’ arms, Otabek simply nodded, and made up some excuse of the bus coming early today as a way of escaping. Now that his coach was suspicious, he would have to avoid the rink for a few days. Not enough to greatly impact his skating, but long enough to let Umar get distracted by other skating-related problems and get him off Otabek’s back.

Sylvyan fell asleep on him on the ride home. He carried her up to her bedroom, grateful for the silence of the house; their parents were out and so were their shitty friends.

The only evidence they left behind were empty bottles. Vodka, wine, whiskey, other liqueurs that Otabek wasn’t familiar with and didn’t care enough to learn. With a sigh he gathered them and tossed them into recycling.

Part of him knew that he had to be more careful. Yuri and his coach had seen his bruises, Viktor and the other Yuuri seemed oddly concerned. It was only a matter of time before someone put two and two together and Sylvyan would be shipped off to an orphanage, leaving him homeless or another victim of suicide.

But an ever-growing part of him found himself crying out for help. Maybe he slightly-on-purpose didn’t completely cover his eye in that selfie he sent Yuri. Maybe he intentionally ‘forgot’ to buy a bandage to wrap around his wrist on the way to the rink. Maybe he was so deeply aching for someone to help and take him away from this nightmare.

So he blamed it on impulse when he sent another selfie to Yuri over Instagram messenger, picturing him leaning his chin on his hand, bruise clearly visible if you increased the brightness on your phone and squinted.

 **otabek-altin:** hey. Sorry I haven’t been on. You ok?

He regretted it immediately, as he always did. But there was no going back now.

At this point in time, he thought he’d rather be homeless or dead anyway.

 

**Yuri**

Yuri Plisetsky was angry. Not just annoyed or irritated as he usually was after an especially trying interaction with a hyper Viktor, but lip-bitingly red faced _angry._ Lilia had told him that he wouldn’t be getting his phone fixed again if he threw it at any more solid surfaces in a fit of rage, so instead he took his anger out in the only other way he knew how: skating.

Deep down he knew it wasn’t healthy, knew he was overdoing himself as he felt his heartbeat plead for a break after he threw himself into another triple axel, but he didn’t _care_. How else was he supposed to vent his frustrations out? He had punched a wall once and quickly learned that the pain far outweighed any relief he got and had vowed never to do that again.

Anger was an emotion that people usually tied to the blond Russian, but truthfully those who thought he was ‘angry’ had usually just caught in in a state of extreme exasperation. Every stupid interviewer or Yuri’s Angel commonly mistook displeasure with anger; his constant scowl and slumped shoulders were very easily read as threatening. However in reality they had no idea what an angry Yuri Plisetsky looked like.

Pure, undiluted anger looked like another failed quad that ended with him slamming his shoulder into the ice, the 12th lap of the rink in 5 minutes, the quick snappy replies he shot at anyone who tried to tell him to slow down. Anger was ignoring the burn in his legs as he pulled himself into another Beilman. Anger was forgetting to stop for lunch because he was so preoccupied with carving lines into the ice and feeling his bones rattle as he landed a salchow badly.

He knew his anger was unwarranted and pathetic, but the sun would implode before he admitted that. Everyone cancelled plans and didn’t text their friend back every now and then, and it was especially common for people in their line of work since Yuri himself knew how much time training took up. So why, despite these justifications he easily came up with, did he feel so much resentment towards Otabek all of a sudden?

It was as if these past few weeks’ worth of annoyance caught up with him all at once and unexpectedly manifested into rage. The sudden stockpile of emotions, combined with the stress that Yakov was putting upon him, lead to a self-destructively cranky teenager who told Mila to fuck off for the third time as she called for him to take a break.

“Yuri Plisetsky! Mind your language!” Lilia barked at him from the sidelines, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in disapproval, a sight that would have made Yuri roll his eyes if he could see it through the swirling of the room that came with yet another jump.

As usual he expected to land smoothly- it wasn’t even a quad for goodness’ sake- but instead a wave of dizziness hit him as he came towards the ground again and he ended up angling his body weirdly, one foot bent backwards in a pathetic attempt to centre his weight and prevent himself from slamming onto the ice.

It didn’t work. He could barely grunt as he saw the ice rushing towards his face, a sight he hadn’t experienced since he was a junior. Most skaters fell on their sides when they misjudged a landing due to the rotation of the jumps. Only amateurs fell backwards or forwards and ended up hurting their head instead of suffering with the occasional shoulder injury that came from landing on one’s side.

Well, amateurs and Yuri, apparently.

He heard rather than felt his face smash against the ice, a sickening sound that seemed to echo around the rink. The pain came soon after and wasn’t welcomed, and he immediately curled into foetal position as if that would stop the throbbing in his nose and the sting in his eyes. Some clouded part of his brain registered a sticky wet substance that wrapped itself around his fingers and face, however that was merely an inconvenience in comparison to his screaming nose and lip and chin and- oh god, now he was hyperventilating and the flexing of his nostrils was making everything worse and Viktor was yelling and-

“Yuri! Yuri, it’s okay, calm down, you’re okay, well you’re not okay but you _will_ be okay-“

“Shush, Viktor. You’re panicking more than he is.”

Katsudon and Viktor’s voiced floated into his consciousness and for once in his life Yuri was grateful for their presence. Though annoying and useless the majority of the time, they were good to confront in moments of desperation (Yuuri more than Viktor admittedly), and now they were helping him to ground himself and drag his mind away from the panicked state it had fallen into.

“Yuri,” Katsudon began again, calmer this time, “can you relax your hands for me? You’re hurting yourself.” Until those words were spoken Yuri didn’t even realise he had tangled his hands in his hair and was pulling hard, but now he relaxed and winced as his scalp protested. “There we are, that’s good. You’ve had a bad fall. Your nose is bleeding, we need to see if it’s broken.”

A broken nose? The only thing Yuri knew about broken noses was that they always looked ugly in films and were usually the consequence of starting a fight with someone. Slowly, cautiously, he unwrapped his limbs from the curled-up position he lay in and turned his head to allow Yuuri to check him over. Upon opening one eye he saw that Mila had skated over, and if he had lifted his head slightly he would have seen Georgi, Yakov and Lilia talking hurriedly a few metres away and shooting concerned glances in his direction.

“Christ, kid, you gave me a heart attack.” Mila said with a voice that was laced with worry. The blood had formed a small pool on the ice and she reached out to push most of his hair away from it, though there was no saving the few stray strands that were now a gruesome shade of red. It stained his hand and was steadily dripping down his chin. Thank god he wasn’t squeamish otherwise he would have vomited by now.

“Okay, it isn’t broken. There won’t be any lasting damage, but we need to get you off the ice and cleaned up.” The conformation that his face wasn’t going to look permanently mangled gave him the small burst of strength he needed to push himself off up on shaking legs, though the arm that Viktor offered to lean on was definitely appreciated. Slowly, the small group of them made their way to the benches, where Yuri gratefully slumped down with his eyes closed and leaned back against the wall.

Either Viktor or Mila pressed a handful of tissue paper to his still-throbbing nose to collect the blood that was relentlessly trickling down his face. Now he could think clearly again he ran over the events in his mind: triple loop, Lilia shouting, sudden dizziness, landed awkwardly, kissed the ice in a much less graceful way than JJ did at the Grand Prix. If he wasn’t in so much pain he would have been humiliated.

“What happened, Yura?” Mila asked as he crouched down beside him. “You’ve been acting weird all day.”

“Dizzy.” Was the only word he could reply with, focusing more on leaning his head forward and pinching his nose.

“No wonder, you didn’t stop for lunch at all. Have you eaten anything today?” Yuri nodded a response at that, since he had eaten breakfast before they left, although he hadn’t had anything since then and it was now 3 in the afternoon. Next time he’d remember to eat in amongst his angst-filled skating rages. Mila simply sighed and shifted out of the way to make way for Yakov and Lilia who had come over.

“Take the rest of the day off, boy. Tomorrow too if you need it.” Yakov simply said and patted him firmly on the shoulder. Lilia bent down and gently cupped his cheek, a motion that was absurdly soft in juxtaposition with Yakov’s rough hand. She nodded once at him without breaking eye contact. It was a small, wordless gesture that Yuri knew meant _I’m here for you, I hope you’re okay, everything will be alright._ Like Otabek she didn’t need to say much for Yuri to understand.

He went back to Viktor and Yuuri’s after that. Sitting in blood-stained clothing got old very quickly and he was in desperate need of a shower. There was no avoiding the questions that the two men would fire at him once he was alone in a room, but Yuri thought that might not be a bad thing- if skating his anger out didn’t work then he would be forced to try the old-fashioned method of _talking_ about his problems. Problems that were now stupidly tiny in comparison to his embarrassing accident and the ache in his face that wouldn’t go away no matter how many ice packs he held against it.

Sure enough, they were waiting for him silently in the kitchen after he grumpily came down wearing clean, loose-fitting clothes that were much more comfortable than the stuff Lilia insisted he wore on the rink. Shampoo did a magnificent job at rinsing blood out of his hair and the only evidence of the injury was slight swelling and more-than-slight redness that swept across his nose. If it looked this gross now, he didn’t want to think about what it would look like if it had actually been broken.

“Yuri. Talk to us. What’s wrong?” Viktor asked in that stern voice that only came out when he was truly concerned. “Is it Otabek again?”

The sound of his best friend’s name caused Yuri to scowl and slump down further into the chair opposite them, confirming Viktor’s question. “Yeah. He ain’t fucking talking to me! How am I supposed to ask him if he hates me if he won’t text me and cancels our plans to video call? What kind of friend does that?” He spat bitterly, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. Becoming angry again wouldn’t do him any good; he had to calm down and approach this rationally, like Yuuri did, but it was _so fucking hard._

“You didn’t video him after all?”

“Nope. Had to take his sister to a school club. On Saturday. If he didn’t want to talk to me he could have made up a better excuse.”

“Hmm.” Katsudon mirrored the blonds’ frown, deep in thought like he usually was. Whenever he wasn’t crying or having a panic attack he’d be trying to crack every mystery going and maintain his status of ‘household problem solver’. But there wasn’t any mystery here, the truth was written in black and white in the form of an Instagram message: Otabek was tired of him.

Truthfully, Yuri didn’t know why he was getting so worked up over this. Maybe it was due to the deep-rooted fear of being left and not having a friend to talk to. Maybe it was due to the weird, complex feelings he had for Otabek that he tucked away into the closet in his mind that was marked with a huge ‘Do Not Enter’ sign, along with many other bad memories and confusing thoughts.

He pulled out his phone with a sigh, checking it for the first time that evening with the intention of showing them the weird message from Beka.

There, glowing on his screen, sent just moments ago was a message from the man in question. It was as if he messaged him like clockwork whenever Yuri was doubting their friendship. He better fucking have a good excuse for why he had ghosted him so suddenly, and Yuri gritted his teeth and thought up his best insult as he swiped left to open the messages.

 **otabek-altin:** (1) Image Attachment

 **otabek-altin:** hey. Sorry I haven’t been on. You ok?

But instead of angrily spilling his heart out, instead of blocking him out of spite or even deleting the app altogether, Yuri froze.

The picture had been sent mere minutes earlier and he still had time. It was 5pm in Russia, making it only 8pm in Almaty- there was no way Otabek would be busy or sleeping. Clicking the ‘Skype’ app, Yuri pushed himself off the kitchen seat and made his way into the hallway. The green ‘online’ symbol was an invitation to demand attention from the stupid man who played with his stupid emotions so well and caused him to go from furious to concerned in seconds, and of course he couldn’t say no to that teasing green icon. He pushed it, waited for the call to connect, and switched to video. Otabek couldn’t decline him this time.

Naturally, it could have been an accident, or a trick of the light, a big deal created out of something tiny.

Yet Yuri didn’t believe that. Whether it was Katsudon’s inquisitive nature influencing him or a feeling in his gut: he was going to find out what had caused that hideous bruise that strangled his friends’ wrist, and he was going to find out why in the background of the picture, perhaps unknown to Otabek at the time of taking the shot, why there was the shadow of a 6-foot-tall tattooed man standing menacingly in the doorway.


	4. I Think Your Bruise Was Understated,'Cause You Can't Feel This Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly the response to the last chapter was overwhelming thank u guys so much!!  
> secondly, i posted this on fanfiction dot net and a reviewer was worried about something, so I just want to make it clear that ///there will be NO sexual-related trauma, abuse, or force in this fic at all///. It'd hurt too much to write that and i dont want to just.... throw in a clusterfuck of traumatic events just for Angst Points yknow???  
> anyway heres the next chapter i love yall  
> I'm not too pleased with this one but ehhhh. sorry for any mistakes i didnt check this chapter through as thoroughly.

**Otabek**

The silence of the house would have troubled most, but to Otabek it was a blessing. It reminded him that amongst the shouting, amongst the pain and sorrow, things settled down sometimes and the silence could fall like dust on furniture. For now, for some precious moments, he was at peace.

(As long as he ignored the foreign smell of cigarettes and the hairs standing up on the back of his neck for reasons unidentified).

Somehow he wasn’t surprised by the sound of the Skype ringtone erupting from his phone after sending that impulsive picture. Even though he was suddenly nervous because Yuri would surely question the mark on his wrist, Otabek couldn’t deny that he smiled at the thought of someone caring, and reached for his phone to quickly accept the call. Now Sylvyan was passed out in bed exhausted, he basically had the house to himself. Cleaning could wait for 5 minutes while he talked to his friend.

“Hey, Yura. You’re home early.” He said while sitting himself down at the table with the camera facing him, wrist placed strategically in his lap. The connection wasn’t great and the pixelated video obscured the minor details, but there was no mistaking the smudge of blond hair and the frown on the face of a boy who sat pouting 4000km away. That was the first thing Otabek noticed, Yuri’s pissed-off expression; the second thing was the redness and swelling of the Russian’s nose.

“ _Ya Allah, Yuri,_ what happened?” Otabek exclaimed and leaned in closer as if that would help him see his face better. (He often found it ironic that his parents had raised him to be Muslim despite them being abusive alcoholics, two things that Islam was heavily against. He had stopped practicing a couple years ago but had retained the vocabulary he had gained from his coach teaching him Arabic and praying.) On the other side of the screen Yuri huffed and covered his nose as if he was embarrassed.

_“Shut up! God! I’m so mad at you but I’m also worried!”_

“Yuri-“

 _“I said shut up!”_ Yuri huffed again and repositioned himself in his seat so he was sitting cross-legged. In the background Otabek could see the wall in the living room that was dedicated to awards: medals hanging from pins and trophies on the shelves, various plaques and badges, the odd certificate and framed photo. Whether they were all Viktor’s or combination of the 3 people that were residing in the small apartment was unknown to the Kazakh, and he figured that now wasn’t the time to ask. Now wasn’t the time to say much judging by the aggressive demand to be quiet.

He was worried and he was slightly insulted that his friend didn’t want him to talk, but those feelings were easily acknowledged when the rest of the house was quiet and he could focus on one thing at a time.

(As long as he didn’t focus on the breeze that swept through the air and made his blood run cold).

 _“I fell doing a stupid jump and face planted the floor. There was blood everywhere and it was hours ago and I’m still in pain and Viktor is being annoying and I’m mad.”_ The words left Yuri’s mouth in a seemingly never-ending list of complaints, each one deepening the frown on Otabek’s face. Face planted the floor? Yuri never fucked up a jump that badly.

He wanted to ask but didn’t know if he would get snapped at for doing so, therefore he kept quiet for a few moments while Yuri glared and grumbled to himself. Certainly he was used to Yuri’s foul moods and bitter remarks, they were very close after all, however they were something Otabek wanted to avoid being directed at him. Especially when dealing with the burden of all the shit he was going through at home.

 _“… I was only joking when I told you to shut up.”_ Yuri said a few moments after, breaking the silence and letting Otabek know it was okay to continue.

“Okay. Why did you fall so badly?”

“Because I was angry! I was angry at you for ignoring me and being so blunt and I felt like you didn’t want to be friends anymore. I thought you were going to leave me.” His voice fell to a mumble at that last part and Otabek swore he felt his heart stop.

A sudden feeling of guilt hit him like a tidal wave and beckoned back the headache that was constantly stored away in the back of his brain. Leaning down on one hand like he had in that selfie- but the other hand this time- Otabek stared at Yuri and hated himself for neglecting this angsty, ridiculous, beautiful boy.

“Yuri. I’d never leave you. I’m sorry I’ve been acting weird, but please believe me when I say you mean so much to me.” Emotions weren’t Otabek’s strong suit, and yet they seemed to flow so naturally when he was around his best friend.

Please believe me when I say you’re one of the few reasons I’m still alive.

_“Hmph. Whatever.”_

“Please be more careful next time. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Otabek couldn’t help but fixate on the colour of Yuri’s eyes, so full of life despite his constant anger, the colour of his pale hair and pale skin, contrasting against his navy blue t-shirt. The way he fidgeted uncomfortably on the couch held Otabek’s interest way more than such a mundane action usually would. He was the only thing he could pay attention to.

(As long as he didn’t pay attention to the open door that was once closed).

_“I could say the same for you, moron.”_

Oh, no. There was only one direction this was heading. Otabek swallowed and clenched his hand in his lap, willing himself to stay calm and collected, making silent promises to not break and reveal too much. There was no way Yuri could guess that the bruise wrapped around his wrist in a handprint, no way he could have seen the line of scratches and crescent-shaped cuts from fingernails, no way he could have seen clearly the black and blue discoloration that sat on top of swirling lilac and yellow. Like he had told Umar: just a crazed fan.

_“What the fuck was up with your wrist? And don’t lie to me and say that it’s nothing because you’re a shit liar, Altin.”_

Well, that part was true. As stoic as he was he had never mastered the art of bending the truth and improvising excuses.

“A fan.” Otabek said bluntly, leaving no room for voice cracks or unexpected tears. “Grabbed me really hard. Hurt like fuck. My coach had to shoulder them off me.”

_“A fan? What? I’ve never had an Angel assault me in the street.”_

“Well, no offence Yuri, but your fan base is mostly 15-year-old girls.”

_“Touché.”_

 The two of them smiled at each other, Otabek grateful the topic had passed so quickly, Yuri looking evidently more relaxed judging by the softening of his features.

He very nearly told him once. It was midnight in Kazakhstan, making it around 9pm in Russia, on a Wednesday. Otabek remembered that detail very clearly because it was his parents’ day off. Usually he’d hide out with Sylvyan in his room but this particular week she had an overnight school trip, leaving him alone with them and unable to escape.

That night was the first night they had properly beat him. They’d hit him before, sure, a slap here and there when he had gotten in the way or backchatted, an occasional plate thrown at him in a rage from across the room. Though never enough to leave a mark that was any worse than a stinging red cheek. Morality and basic compassion had stopped them, Otabek assumed, otherwise he’d have been continuously covered in bruises from a much younger age. For as long as he could remember they had been quick to anger and never shied away from physical discipline. Until that day he thought it was normal.

But then everything had changed for reasons that pained him to think about and his parents fell from bad to worse. Fabric softener used to dissolve in the air of his childhood home; now it was the sickening scent of alcohol. Rare smiles towards him and his sister became non-existent; they were replaced with a permanent scowl and glare of disgust. Sylvyan had never been too close to her parents, preferring her big brother, but Otabek had based his entire life around pleasing them, and learning to hate them was a change that he didn’t take very well.

He had dropped a bowl one Wednesday night. Usually it’d be waved off with a snide remark from his mother calling him an idiot.

This time it resulted in him curled in the corner while his father screamed obscenities at him and beat him with a broom.

 _Very stereotypical,_ he had thought to himself afterwards, dumb _kid makes parents angry and gets hit with a broom._ The grey humour didn’t take away the feeling of bruised ribs and the realisation that that was his life now.

Later, on Skype, he had nearly blurted out what happened when Yuri asked him why he kept wincing. For some reason he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t want to cause concern or be a burden, maybe he was still struggling to process what had happened. After being told by his parents that it would only result in Sylvyan being taken away, he was glad he had kept it in.

That was 3 months ago, in March, two weeks after Yuri’s birthday. Now it was June and things kept getting worse.

Or, he supposed he would have realised they were getting worse if he wasn’t so fucking _numb_ all the time.

 _“Anyway.”_ Yuri’s voice coming from tinny speakers pulled him from his depressing daydream, causing him to blink back to reality and smile at his friend.

“Yes?”

_“What’s with that weird man in your picture?”_

Otabek frowned again, wondering just how hard Yuri had hit his head when he fell. Concussions were nasty things and could manifest into something so much worse if left untreated. Hallucinations were a warning sign.

“Man? Yura, are you feeling okay? I think you should go tell Viktor if you’re seeing things.”

 _“Seeing things? Are you calling me crazy? It’s right there in your stupid picture, in the doorway. Look for yourself!”_ Yuri pulled his laptop onto his knees after realising there was no way he could show Otabek his phone screen while Skyping him on said phone.

4000km away, Yuri opened Instagram on his web browser, zoomed in on the picture, and turned the monitor around so Otabek could see.

One time when he was 7, Otabek nearly fell off a theme park ride. If the fire brigade were 30 seconds late he would have died. He’d recount that story if anyone ever asked him what his most terrifying moment had been. Not even the fear of his parents could top the feeling of knowing you’re going to die, knowing that the only thing between you and the floor were countless metal beams and poles that would break every bone before killing you, knowing that you wouldn’t have the chance to scream before you painted the roller-coaster red.

When he was 7, he’d laugh at the suggestion that a photograph would make that fear seem tiny in comparison to the undiluted _horror_ that ran through his veins now.

“Keep your head down, boy. We don’t need no paparazzi making a spectacle out of this.” That’s what his father said afterwards when the media were begging for pictures and interviews.

(As long as he kept his head down, nothing would hurt him).

Otabek looked up.

And then he wasn’t numb anymore. He was petrified.

“Hey there.” The greeting seemed so plain to an outsider, but poison coated each letter like tattoos coated the skin of the man standing metres away. Leaning against the doorframe nonchalantly, ice blue eyes and their dilated pupils grazed lazily across his victim’s face as if sizing up a meal.

Man or serpent? Otabek couldn’t form thoughts coherent enough to answer.

“Shhhh. Play along.” He winked as if it was just that- a game. The grin on his face certainly seemed to suggest that he viewed it so. _Sadist_ was the first thought that broke through the haze in Otabek’s mind, and that realisation wasn’t a comforting one.

Once that word had flashed across his vision, more kept coming and coming, streaming waterfalls of words and there were too many, it was too much, his brain was screaming _run_ and _stay_ , _panic_ and _calm_ , _scream_ and _silence_ , _beg_ and _logic_ , and even though his insides were on fire he managed to maintain his stoic expression and not give anything away.

_For God’s sake, Altin, think! That’s the one thing you’re good at!_

Another voice, angrier than the man’s, demanding his attention.

Was someone else here?

_“Beka!”_

Were they going to hurt him?

_“Hey, moron!”_

If they were, would it really matter?

 _“Oy!”_ The source of the voice clicked their fingers and Otabek’s eyes flickered downwards, back to Yuri, and his mind begun to settle enough to figure out what to do.

“Sorry. Plumber. The man is the plumber.”

That was the best he could come up with.

_“Fucking ‘plumber’? Do you go all weird and spacey when you see electricians, too?”_

“Sorry.” He repeated with a shrug. “I forgot the plumber was here. Bath pipes broke. I have to go now.” Anyone would have thought he was a machine with how robotic his voice was, spitting out words without tone and conviction, desperate to find an excuse to end the call.

_“But your bath pipes broke mon-“_

“I have to go now.” Otabek repeated quickly and shut the call off, knowing what Yuri was going to say and dreading the consequences of letting him finish that sentence.

And then he was alone and vulnerable and tiny once more.

“Atabek. Atabek Altin You have nothing to be scared of.” The man, the serpent, stepped closer and leaned on the other side of the table. Now that he was closer Otabek could see his tattoos clearer and now had the opportunity to take note of them. Some were Russian quotes that he didn’t recognise, some were strange symbols, some were animals- the most fitting being a snake on his right bicep.

Two eight-pointed stars below his collarbones.

“You know why I am here, yes?” He pushed himself up and slowly walked towards Otabek, his fingers brushing along the table top as he approached. Of course Otabek didn’t know why he was here- there weren’t enough words in any of the languages he knew to express how scared he was and how frantically he wanted to scream for help. Stating ‘you have nothing to be scared of’ only added to the list of ways this encounter could go.

“N-no, sir.”

Weak. Fresh meat. Tiny.

Almost caringly the man leaned over and took Otabek’s hand in his, the one with the bruise binding around his wrist. His skin was clammy and disgusting and made the Kazakh feel filthy.

“I’m here,” he begun with a smile “to make sure you don’t tell anybody about _this_.”

Thick fingers clamped around his wrist again and forced a cry of pain from Otabek’s throat, and the panic started to bubble in his stomach once more, making his heart pound along with the throbbing in his hand.

“Little Atabek, don’t you think I know you? Don’t you think I know the people you owe money to, or the people you’ve stolen from to feed your bratty sister? You think I’m stupid, huh?”

“No!” What meant to be a firm statement came out as a fear-filled whisper.

 “You want me to tell them your address, Atabek? Want them to find you? Want me to tell your parents their names, cause we both sure know they wouldn’t hesitate to hand you in?”

“No, please, sir.”

“Well, then.” The serpent let go all of a sudden to leave Otabek cradling his wrist and dabbing at tears. “Well, then. You better keep quiet.”

He casually sauntered back to the door as if he hadn’t been inflicting pain on this boy just seconds earlier.

“If you say anything to anybody about how you got that bruise, or about how your parents treat you, not only will I let my friends take care of you, but I’ll also let them take care of your sister. Got it?”

 _Sylvyan_. Otabek’s throat suddenly burned with the taste of vomit.

Nodding was the only confirmation he could give.

“Good. See you around.”

And then the serpent had gone and somehow, despite the panic that buzzed inside of him and the thoughts that sat like metal inside his brain, Otabek could function well enough to heave himself off his seat to throw up in the sink.

No matter how much he was punished, how much he was beaten and abused, how much he toyed with the idea of just ending it all- he couldn’t let Sylvyan get hurt. If he couldn’t protect her then he had failed as a big brother, and that also meant protecting her from the threats and the reality of how corrupt the adult figures around her were. She’d only panic and tell someone at school, not to mention learning about that stuff at such a young age could fuck her up for years into the future.

So he had to keep quiet. He had to brush it off and try to ignore the fact that he was playing a very, very dangerous game.

When his back was turned he missed the fleeting image of her nimble body darting back upstairs, as if she’d never woke up, as if she hadn’t been listening to the entire conversation.

 

**Yuri**

One minute he had been talking to Otabek, venting about how much of a shit day he had and unloading at least little bit of his anger onto his friend, but otherwise grateful to see his face.

The next minute the line had gone dead and the Skype icon immediately changed to ‘offline’. Through the sudden edge in the Kazakh’s voice Yuri had managed to catch the words _“I have to go now”_ before the video had cut off. He hadn’t even been able to finish his sentence.

_But your bath pipes broke months ago._

He wasn’t certain exactly what had happened, but he also wasn’t stupid, and one thing was clear as day: that man was not a plumber.

“Fuck it!” Yuri yelled and angrily threw his phone across the room (aiming so it landed on something soft; he didn’t want to annoy Lilia), turned his laptop round again, and opened a new browser window. Sitting on his ass made him completely useless, and Yuri Plisetsky was _not_ useless. If he couldn’t help Beka directly then he was going to do some investigating.

 

Where to start? “6 foot tattooed white man storms Almaty?” The picture wasn’t even clear enough to make out what images the ink formed, or what words they created- at least not without heavy editing and a good deal of guess work. No, starting with this menacing imposter wasn’t the way to go: he had to start with Otabek himself.

Half an hour later he was laying on his bed with a notebook, his laptop, and Potya for company. A tiny part of him felt oddly excited, as if he was about to solve a crime. Even if this was a complete waste of time he should at least get _something_ to help him start piecing things together.

 _“Otabek Altin”_ was the first thing he typed into Google. The obvious results flutter across the screen: interviews, blog posts, news reports, videos of his programmes. Surely it’d be a waste of time to read through them, they all said the same stuff Yuri had read about himself countless times, the only differences being news on Otabek’s ‘Hero of Kazakhstan’ status and his countries’ reaction. Besides, huge news stories never talked about the personal life of skaters.

But fans did.

Tumblr was opened next, and the navy screen was immediately filled with cat videos and shitposts that would have made Yuri smirk at any other time. Instead of staying on his dash, however, he quickly typed his friend’s name in again and filtered the results to show the most recent posts. Tumblr was often migraine-inducing when it came to fans and Yuri was grateful he had safe search turned on.

Fanfictions, weird fan art, the occasional post squealing about how good-looking the Kazakh was- Tumblr was no help and Yuri cursed himself for getting his hopes up. Rolling his eyes at one particular edit of him and Otabek with cat ears, he exited off the tab (but not before liking it since his account was pretty much anonymous) and considered searching through twitter, although he knew the results would be pretty much the same there.

For a few seconds Yuri considered searching for his little sister and maybe even visiting her school’s website, but he quickly brushed those ideas away. Maybe that was slightly tiptoeing over the line from ‘concerned’ to ‘creepy’. Sylvyan was a weirdly smart kid, Yuri knew that from the times she had randomly popped up when Skyping Otabek- however the chance of her contributing to his research was very low. His notebook remained blank and the weight in his chest hadn’t lifted at all.

Nearly 45 minutes had passed since the call- was it safe to try again? Would Otabek even answer after that weird reaction and blatant lie about the plumber? Probably not.  That realisation only made Yuri more determined to find out what the fuck was going on.

Now he had two options: either continue searching into the depths of Google results, or drag Photoshop from the dusty corners of his Macbook and see if he could manipulate that picture and make the man more clear. Those tattoos were the key to unlocking who he was.

If only he knew how the fuck to work Photoshop.

Dragging the cropped image into the app, Yuri considered reading a few articles or watching a YouTube video to guide him, but that would waste precious minutes. That concerning gut feeling had returned, telling him that something was very wrong and that he needed to work quickly for whatever reason. Articles and videos could wait. He was on his own here.

Enhancing the image did nothing, nor did changing the resolution or using that weird lasso tool to select individual sections. No matter how many buttons he pressed, the image remained frustratingly pixelated, and after a while he somehow manage to end up with 20 layers and some weird effect that made his project look like a failed Picasso interpretation. Sighing, he undid his work, and just stared at the screen.

This was hopeless. He’d never be able to make the picture clear.

Unless…

“Viktor! Get your ass in here, old man! We haven’t got your Zimmer frame yet but I’m sure you can manage!” The teen shouted angrily from the outside his door. Viktor chuckled from the living room like he usually did when Yuri insulted him (though why he wasn’t ever actually _insulted_ was a mystery), and soon appeared in the hallway wearing that infuriating heart-shaped smile.

“Everything okay, Yurio? Is your nose alright?” The older man asked, evidently pleased that Yuri needed his help.

“Listen, moron. You know how to use Photoshop, right? You used to edit your pictures from shoots because you’re vain and didn’t want the actual photographers to do it.”

Hell, it was a last resort. But by now he was desperate and Viktor wouldn’t exactly say no.

“Why, yes, I have some Photoshop skills. But aren’t you a little young for photoshoots, Yurio?”

“Cut the crap. I’ve got a blurry image and I need to make it clearer. And no, before you ask, it isn’t of me.” Yuri snapped with a glare. He stepped back into his room, leaving Viktor no choice but to follow. Sure enough, the other Russian stepped into his room just moments later, and squinted at the image on the laptop.

“Gosh, he’s sure scary! Why do you want this made clearer?”

“None of your business! Can you do it?” Of course the idiot was going to delve into Yuri’s motives, but that was okay, he’d just make up some lie. The important thing was making the man’s tattoos visible.

“Well, yes, however I am rather curious. Are you interested in the tattoos, perhaps? Tattoos can look pretty but these look positively terrifying.”  Trust Viktor to guess the right answer on his first attempt- though he clearly misjudged Yuri’s reasons for wanting to know the subject matter of the ink.

“Less talking, more editing.”

Viktor smiled again but said no more and quickly began to open lists and features that Yuri hadn’t even seen before. That stupid lasso tool was barely touched, whereas Yuri had been using it in everything he did. A small part of the blond felt foolish, yet that feeling melted away as the image gradually stopped looking like something out of a 90’s video game and more like a human being with tattoos.

Tattoos that were suddenly easily seen when Viktor pressed one final button.

A snake that curled around a bicep caught Yuri’s attention first. Mostly because it was one of the only ones that seemed to have any colour in it: reds, yellows, blacks- it looked to be one of those coral snakes, or their non-venomous counterpart, whatever they were called. Certainly not the tattoo a plumber would have.

Cyrillic script ran down his right arm, and even though the image had been edited it was still hard to read because of the elaborate font. Yuri was certain of one thing though, and that was that the Cyrillic was Russian, not Kazakh, mostly due to the fact that he could just make out the word ‘бунтарь’, meaning ‘rebel’. Presumably the verb as opposed to the noun.

On his left shoulder sat the image of a cat, which would usually have made Yuri smile, except for the fact that this cat seemed to have been mauled judging by a missing eye and a ripped-off ear. Some of the head curled back around the shoulder and wasn’t visible, which was probably a good thing. It creeped him out. Everything about this man creeped him out.

Viktor hadn’t said anything since completing his masterpiece, which was unusual for such a talkative guy. So much so that Yuri was surprised when he glanced at him and was met with a heavy frown; Viktor was also staring at the picture, although while Yuri was creeped out and concerned, the older Russian looked _disturbed._

“Vitya?” Yuri said, also wearing a similar frown as he nudged the figure sat slumped next to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Yuri, where did you get this?”

“Nowhere, I-“

“No, I need to know. For your safety. Do you know this man?”

For his _safety?_ Was Viktor finally going senile? The demanding tone of his voice left no space for argument or denial.

“Otabek. He, uh, found it on Instagram and sent it to me because he thought it was creepy. I agreed and said I’ll try to enhance it for whatever reason.” It wasn’t _entirely_ a lie- Otabek had sent it to him, and it _was_ over Instagram. Convincing Viktor that neither of them knew this man seemed to be the right thing to do.

“Well, he was right. It is creepy.”

“Why? And why would my safety be a problem even if I did know him?”

Viktor paused for a second and then leaned in to point at a particular tattoo. Not the snake, or the quotes, or even the zombified cat.

He pointed at two eight-pointed stars below his collarbones. The tattoos that Yuri had thought to be the most mundane.

“These.”

“Care to elaborate?” Yuri scoffed, but the patronising look was quickly wiped off his face by the way Viktor was staring at him.

“Yuri, promise me you don’t know him?”

“I promise, damn it! What’s the deal with two gross-looking stars? You’re not worried about the snake or the weird cat?”

“No. Because snakes on biceps or cats aren’t usually Russian prison tattoos.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them as Yuri absorbed this information.

Otabek Altin always was awful at lying.

“Two stars below the collarbones were used to mark prison convicts, mostly during the USSR. They’re also common in members of the Mafia.” Viktor continued, eyes focused back on the laptop screen. “Stars on the knees symbolise a criminal who would defy the system, someone who would never get down on his knees for another person. Stars on the chest symbolise criminal authority. I only know all this because of a history class I took once. Whoever this man is, he’s dangerous, Yuri. Tell Otabek that.”

“I-I will. I’ll tell Otabek that he’s dangerous.”

Yuri couldn’t choke down the feeling that Otabek already knew.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS GETTING INTENSE NOW BOIS  
> as usualy, pls comment if you can, i love talking to you guys!!!!  
> I'm gonna put some sliiight spoilers down below regarding the structure of this fic and a small amount of the content, please dont read if you dont want spoilers, however if youre worried about particular heavy themes it might be worth it to read  
> *SPOILERS*  
> *SPOILERS*  
> *SPOILERS*  
> \- There is NO major character dearth!! That includes Sylvyan  
> \- There is an eventual happy ending  
> \- This scary man wont make too much of an appearance anymore, but it's definitely going to stay intense. The next 2/3 chapters will continue building tension before I get to the main points in the plot  
> \- Again, there will be no sexual-related trauma or force!!
> 
> thats it!! again i love yall  
> (also the russian prison tattoo thing is real lmao, but interestingly snakes and cats were used as symbols too, however the snake was usually around the neck and the cat wasnt as well-known.)


	5. I Want To Live Where Soul Meets Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! This chapter is a wee bit softer because i know the last couple were very angsty, but don't get too comfortable. Actually don't get comfortable at all.
> 
> This chapter contains very brief mentions of self harm and an eating disorder, but it's veeeery brief. Like a sentence each.
> 
> Also!!!! I made something else to go along with this chapter. I'll link it at the end but read the chapter first otherwise it wont make sense lmao.
> 
> Also!!! pt 2: sorry yuri's part is shit and not checked thoroughly i just wanted to update this today
> 
> ok enjoy i love all yall

**Otabek**

Vomit splashed into the sink below him, staining the white porcelain surface with the colour of what little he had to eat throughout the day, a disgusting mixture of food and stomach bile that made his throat burn and eyes water. Even when his stomach was empty he continued retching and gagging, as if his body was trying to throw up the words that the man had said as if they could be washed down the drain too.

The juxtaposition between the tightness in his chest and the emptiness in his stomach left him gasping for breath while clasping the edge of the sink. He so badly wanted a glass of water, or anything to soften the sandpaper in his throat, but when he tried to stand upright he instantly started gagging again. Tears spilled freely down his cheeks and the explosion of salt on his parched tongue felt like razor blades cutting into his mouth.

 _Panic attack_ were the first words that came to mind when he began to wonder why his breathing wasn’t slowing after five, ten, fifteen minutes. That assumption was confirmed when his legs finally gave out and he sank to the floor, grateful for the feeling of cool porcelain against his cheek. The silent cry turned into an ugly sob when he gathered the strength to bury his head into his knees, and there he remained, crying and hugging his shoulders and silently praying for someone to _help._

But he knew that he was alone, he had to stay strong, he had to get up and at least do the dishes before he passed out in bed. Or Sylvyan’s bed- the thought of sleeping alone tonight made him want to throw up all over again.

So Otabek pushed himself up with shaky hands and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. A glass of cool water was greatly appreciated, and he held the glass against his eyes to calm the redness and swelling that crying brought. He couldn’t remember the last time he had properly cried. It felt good.

Hopefully Sylvyan hadn’t been woken by his breakdown, otherwise she’d only stress out and ask questions. She cried way too little for a 7-year-old, Otabek had come to realise, though that could be due to copying her big brother or just not having much to cry about. He hoped it was the latter and repeated this hope to himself as he got to work tackling the mountain of dishes next to the sink.

His routine was monotonous and stressful, it made his back ache and head pound, but he appreciated it in the sense that it gave him some control in his life. The beatings from his parents were often random outbursts that could come on unprovoked, he could never foreshadow the questions from his coach or a concerned passer-by, and that uncertainty made him feel anxious and hopeless. Knowing he had to get up at 6am every day, take Sylvyan to school, practice at the rink, and come home to clean up were all roles he shouldn’t have to deal with at his age, yet they weren’t a burden to him. These were things he had control of, and that was a comfort.

Previously he had tried other methods of gaining control in his life, however they always seemed to be unhealthy and destructive. Calorie-counting had nearly lead to an eating disorder that he had only managed to prevent thanks to the intervention from his coach. Cutting himself gave him relief and control in the moment, but the feeling of panic afterwards along with the guilt and fear of someone finding out wasn’t worth the scars. So he could deal with the way his eyes stung when he forced them open at 6am and the way the dish soap dried out his hands if it meant that he could hold on to a part of his free will.

Back when things were better, Otabek used to sing when he cleaned. Sinatra or Bowie, old Gorillaz songs, songs that he didn’t know the name of but liked the way the lyrics rolled off his tongue. Sylvyan found comfort in his deep voice that floated thick like caramel through the air.

Now the idea of singing made him sad. His Bowie records had been untouched for months and the only songs that filled his ears were the repetitive piano of his skating programmes and the songs from the charts that he mixed while DJ-ing.

Thinking about DJ-ing made him grimace- when was the last time he’d done a gig? Not in a few weeks, at least. If it wasn’t for his sponsors and the odd errand he ran here and there, he’d be completely broke, and since he had no control over his bank accounts he couldn’t even check to see how much money was left. When he ran out of money and couldn’t pay the bills anymore…

He didn’t want to think about it.

After a several minutes the stack of dishes was beginning to look more manageable, and Otabek found his shoulders relaxing and his breathing slowing to a regular speed. Honestly, he was surprised that he had reacted the way he did; panic attacks weren’t unfamiliar to him, but he’d become so numb to his parents’ treatment that part of him expected to be able to brush away the words of the man.

Threatening his sister was what sent him spiralling. Even now, as he drained the sink and pat his hands dry, he couldn’t control his thoughts from wandering into the _what if’s._ What if he came back? What if he hurt her even if Otabek kept quiet? What if-

The sound of the front door opening pulled him from his internal argument, and he froze instantly, expecting the man to come around the corner with an army of others who wanted to hurt him. Otabek instinctively took a step back and clenched his hands into fists at his sides, waiting, anticipating the snake-like grin and the pain that would follow.

Instead, his parents came into the room, giving him an annoyed look and setting grocery bags on the counter. Undoubtedly full of alcohol and not actual groceries, and the sight of the liquor would usually disgust him, but now he was pleased to see them (for the first time in a long, long while). It was either them or _him,_ and though his parents should never be underestimated, Otabek felt like he’d been subjected to an entirely new form of fear within the past hour.

“Boy.” The rough voice of his father demanded his attention, and Otabek instantly locked eyes with the man before him to show that he was listening. It was the small things that made all the difference: eye contact when talking, holding the door open for them, tucking his chair in after leaving the table. Small things that reduced his chances of getting beaten by just that little bit.

“You need to pay the bills tomorrow, me and your mother are going out.” His father said, reaching a hand into his pocket to pull out a wad of notes to hand to Otabek. “You will pay it before noon, and you will pay it as a lump sum.” He had such a blunt, monotone way of talking, an intimidating tone that left no room for debate or even an answer. Otabek simply nodded and took the money- _his_ money, they always got rent money from their son’s bank account- to carefully store away in his wallet.

“Good.” His father said with a final nod, and was about to turn away, when something caught his eye. “What happened to your wrist? I didn’t do that to you. Hanifa, did you grab the boy’s wrist?”

Otabek’s mother looked over from where she was putting the alcohol in the cupboards and shook her head, thinning black hair spilling from her loose ponytail. She was beautiful once, his mother. Before the stress, which lead to depression, which lead to alcoholism. The spark in her eyes had faded a long, long while ago.

“No.” She simply said, leaving his father to frown and grab Otabek’s hand to inspect it further. He resisted the urge to pull his hand back and swallowed winces as his father prodded and poked.

“You will cover this up before you go out. If I find out anyone’s getting suspicious…”

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. Otabek already knew.

Daring to count the notes that had been handed to him would be stupid while his parents were still here, however when they finally left for the night Otabek didn’t hesitate to pull the notes from his wallet and count them. Math wasn’t his father’s strong suit, nor was bill paying, two weaknesses that often lead to him not giving enough money and falling slightly behind on payments. And as that _man_ had so ruthlessly pointed out: Otabek already owed money to a lot of people. He didn’t want to add more to that list.

The exact number he needed to pay had been drilled into his head for as long as he had been paying the bills, and as the number he counted rose above the cost of rent and tax, his heart started beating faster- but this time not as the result of a panic attack, but as the result of a happy confusion. His father had given him _too much._

Not by an extreme amount, nowhere near enough to pay back the money that people demanded from him or conduct some grand scheme of escaping with Sylvyan, but enough to allow him to go into town and buy his sister some things she needed and get a decent meal. He found himself getting excited despite the now-late hour. As the sun set, he felt his hopes rising, and couldn’t wait to break the news to her.

Just like the little things kept his parents calm, it was the little things that could turn Otabek’s entire day around.

Sure enough, Sylvyan reacted with the excitement he expected when he broke the news at breakfast the next morning, almost spilling her cereal all over the kitchen table. Her spoon ended up somewhere on the floor from where she gasped and threw her hands up in joy. Perhaps a slight overreaction, though Otabek could hardly blame her; treats were extremely rare luxuries that they both appreciated. Luckily he had the day off so he didn’t have to worry about making it to the rink.

“Can we get a puppy? No, an elephant. Or three hundred avocados!” She babbled and wouldn’t sit still through the hair-braiding-teeth-brushing routine that she should have been used to by now. Otabek tuned out, his mind more focused on the logical approach rather than engaging in Sylvyan’s weird fantasies (one suggestion that he caught was _“sixteen lawyers so I can sue that boy at school for pulling my braids”_ ).

Clothes were top of his list. He didn’t mind her wearing his jackets, but more and more often he had found her walking around in his jogging bottoms that she had rolled up or even his skating costumes, one of which now hung proudly in her wardrobe after she declared ownership over his so-called ‘pirate waistcoat’. Her own clothes were probably slightly too small for her, and she never had much of an attachment to them. Mama and papa had brought her them back when they cared enough to, and it was evident that they were trying to force her to be more girly than she was. Pink frills and lace didn’t appeal to her. Otabek wanted to buy her something new and comfortable.

Food came next, although the stash that he had stored under his bed seemed to be lasting him longer than he thought it would. Stocking up on pasta or rice or tinned goods was always a good idea. These things lasted long and went a long way.

If he had any money left after buying these necessities, he would take Sylvyan out for a meal and let her choose something for dessert, and maybe he would eat something, too. Being a figure skater was demanding already, but he found that ever since he had to cut back his own food the pain and exhaustion had tripled, almost resulting in him passing out a few times. His stomach rumbled at the thought.

The bus journey into the city centre was relatively normal, and thankfully no-one recognised him or gave him strange looks for wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day. As his father had demanded, Otabek had wrapped a bandage around his wrist to hide the bruising, and as an afterthought put on his sunglasses to disguise the remainder of the yellow discolouration under his eye and reduce the chances of fangirls finding him. Almaty was a big place, and he was very well known by a lot of people in the city.

“Beka, where are we going?” Sylvyan asked as the two of them walked down the main street after paying the bills. The money was sitting heavily in Otabek’s pocket, constantly reminding him of its presence. It was both exciting and intimidating. He felt like a little boy again, when he was given pocket money for sweets and couldn’t decide how to spend it, but this time instead of sweets he was buying things they _needed_ and he couldn’t afford to go wrong.

“We’re going to a clothes shop, baby. You want some new clothes?” Their hands were clasped together so they wouldn’t be separated in the busy streets.

“But I have clothes!” Sylvyan said, brows furrowed in confusion. She was currently wearing what used to be Otabek’s old t-shirt, purple jeans that were too small for her, and her brother’s cashmere scarf wrapped around her neck. Somewhere she had picked some daisies and had woven them through her plaits. He couldn’t help but smile when he glanced at her; she looked a complete mess, but it was so _her_ that he felt a small surge of pride knowing that she had defied her parent’s wishes for a pink and pretty little girl to dress up.

“Most of them are too small for you. You can have something new. Anything you want.”

_“Anything?”_

“Anything.”

Twenty minutes later, the two of them were standing in the changing rooms, Sylvyan grinning from behind her 70’s-inspired sunglasses and Otabek wishing he had made at least a couple of restrictions when he said she could get ‘anything’. A bright orange crop top with the English words ‘beach babe’ had replaced the old thing she was wearing previously, the scarf had been relocated around her waist and was now being used to hold up a pair of men’s cargo shorts, and she was balancing precariously in a pair of 4-inch heels that were at least three sizes too big for her. The sunglasses hung off her face and were threatening to fall off (but it wouldn’t matter if they did; she had another pair perched on the top of her head. These had a green border and were heart shaped). To finish the look, she had chosen a blue-beaded necklace. Otabek could only gape.

Well, at least it wouldn’t be expensive. She had got bored of the ‘fancy-pants garbage’ in the branded clothing stores and instead had chosen to raid a thrift store.

“Don’t I look Gucci?” Her grin only seemed to widen as she took in her brother’s horrified expression.

“…Yes?” No doubt they’d get weird looks as they walked down the street, but honestly, Otabek was used to them. If people weren’t staring at him because they recognised him, they were staring because the sight of 5ft 6 muscular guy wearing an outfit that consisted of a leather jacket and no colours more exciting than light grey seemed outlandish in conservative Almaty.

So, if she was happy, he was happy.

“But you can lose the heels. And get a jacket that isn’t mine.”

The two of them happily walked out of the thrift shop once everything had been paid for and headed to a cute-looking tea room. Otabek in his all-black get up and floral Doc Martens; Sylvyan with her barbecue dad/70’s disco dancer aesthetic, sporting her own too-big leather jacket and yellow chucks that she had swapped for the heels.  They looked ridiculous and Otabek _loved_ it.

In his sudden feeling of happiness, he didn’t hesitate to order himself food as well as Sylvyan when they were seated in the quiet little café, something he wouldn’t have even considered doing even as recent as the day before. He was glad he did, though, and he was glad it was something light; the tuna and cheese toasted sandwich was filling enough to stop his stomach rumbling, but didn’t make him feel sick. He ate it along with a cup of coffee and watched Sylvyan enjoy her hot chocolate and muffin.

“How’s stuff at school, love?” He asked her, grateful for this time they had together. The only other time they had to talk about stuff was at the rink. Even there they had to keep quiet about certain things thanks to Otabek’s coach constantly looking on. Here, no-one was paying attention to them, and they had nothing to fear.

“It’s fun! We’re learning about the Egyptians. When I die, I want to be buried in a sar-fi-gus.”

“Do you mean a sarcophagus?”

“Yeah! Where they put the mummies and dead pharaohs. Did you know they pull the brain out through the nose with a hook?” She giggled, perhaps slightly too amused by such a gory thing, yet Otabek smiled along with her and shook his head. Muffin crumbs were smeared across her chin and he reached out to flick them away.

“Beka. I have a question.”

“Yes?”

She seemed to think for a few moments, brow creased in a frown and biting her lip slightly. A small tinkling sound came from where she was tapping her nails against the mug, and Otabek was in the middle of taking a sip from his coffee when she finally spoke again.

“Is Mister Pletsky your girlfriend?”

Uncharacteristically and definitely not elegantly, Otabek snorted into his coffee and ended up spilling some down his top and coughing violently into a napkin. It took him a couple of minutes to pull himself together and look up at her with a raised eyebrow.

“ _Excuse me?”_

“Well, you’re always talking to him and sharing secrets. Me and Mister Pletsky are the only people who can make you laugh, and I know you love me, so maybe you love him too?” Any other time he would have found the mispronunciation of Yuri’s name cute, but now he just stared at his sister, dumbfounded and completely lost for words. Where did he even _start?_

Funny how his little sister could suss out his feelings better than he could. To admit that would be to admit his complicated feelings towards his friend, and that was a subject he’d much rather avoid, so instead he addressed the obvious thing that was wrong with her question.

“Well, Yuri is a boy, so he can’t be anyone’s girlfriend, can he?” He managed to say, dabbing pathetically at his stained top. When the mark wouldn’t budge he just zipped up his jacket to hide it.

“But you’re also a boy.”

“Indeed.”

“And Mr Pletsky is a boy.”

“Correct.”

“So… you don’t love him?”

Dear of her, she was clearly very confused. Otabek smiled sadly and reached over to cradle her hand in his.

“Baby, sometimes a man can love another man. Or a woman can love another woman. You might not see it very often, especially not here, but it does happen.”

Sylvyan’s frown deepened as she stared back at her brother. Their parents had kept both of them very sheltered growing up, so it was no wonder that she had little idea what he meant- Otabek barely knew himself until he went to train in American and was exposed to new people. That had allowed him to discover more about himself, and he finally had a name for why he had never found women attractive. He’d purposely kept it a secret from his parents.

“Really? Why would a man love another man?”

“Because… They think they’re attractive. They like their hair and their body and their voices. It’s not something you can control. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

She considered this, looking at him with a puzzled expression as she absorbed this new information. Eventually her frown melted into a soft smirk.

“Do _you_ like men, Beka?”

“Well… Maybe.”

“I knew it! So you DO love Mister Pletsky!”

If it wasn’t so ridiculously cartoonish Otabek would have facepalmed. Instead, he settled on burying his head in his hands, holding back laughter, too amused to feel as surprised as he had when she had mentioned it earlier. This reaction seemed to satisfy Sylvyan and she crossed her arms with a feeling of triumph.

Later on, once they had travelled home and made dinner and cleaned up, Otabek couldn’t help but feel sad as he tucked her into bed. If only every day could be like this. Without the worry and the fear and the stress that he was constantly carrying on his shoulders he was almost able to feel normal.

“You wanna know a secret?” Sylvyan whispered as she was falling asleep. Otabek nodded and leaned down so she could whisper in his ear.

“I think you should kiss Mister Pletsky.”

She was asleep before Otabek could even answer.

Tomorrow was Monday, a school day, therefore he had to get up even earlier and thus required an earlier bedtime. He collapsed in his own bed not long after saying goodbye to his sleeping sister, and managed a small smile. Even though he was constantly going through hell, even though his wrist still hurt and he felt lightheaded every time he stood up, occasionally he could convince himself that everything was going to be okay.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the calm before the storm.

**Yuri**

Stupid fucking Otabek wasn’t answering his stupid fucking phone, no surprise there. Not even the _slightest_ indication that the idiot was alive despite the 20 missed calls and 30 unread messages that Yuri had left him. What was he supposed to do, fly to Kazakhstan? That would require telling Viktor about what was happening and of course, y’know, Otabek actually responding to tell him his address. Yuri was completely stuck and he _hated_ it.

Viktor and Katsudon were testing every last remaining shred of his patience with their constant check-ups and questions and comforts regarding his nose. Their sympathy and tendency to treat him like he was 6 and not 16 drove him over the edge, leaving him clenching his fists and resisting the urge to tangle his fingers into his hair.

By now it had been 24 hours without so much as a word from the Kazakh. Quite possibly Yuri was overreacting and over-worrying; Otabek would have said something if he was in _serious_ danger, right? Besides, he was a careful guy, he didn’t actively look for trouble. Maybe the weird bruises and this menacing intruder and Otabek acting weirdly were all… separate things that happened to coincidently fall together.

Yuri didn’t believe so, somehow.

He was about to call his friend again when a knock on the door distracted him. It would be Katsudon most likely, here to give him another useless icepack or ibuprofen. Biting back the insult that hung like iron on the tip of his tongue, Yuri stood up and yanked open the door, expecting to see the annoying idiot outside.

“Grandpa!”

Instead of being consumed by another wave of anger, the blond felt all stresses melt away as he wrapped his arms around the unexpected figure that stood behind the door. Viktor must have called him- the moron _was_ useful for something, after all- and of course his grandpa probably rushed to get the next flight.

“Yuratchka! My boy. Here, let me have a look at you.” Nikolai pulled away from the embrace to take his grandson’s face between his hands, studying his facial injury and wincing at how sore it looked. Naturally, Yuri squirmed to get free from his grasp, but not as much as he would have done if it were Viktor or Katsudon grabbing him. From this position he could smell the familiar scent of the man: the smell of leather and washing powder and _home._

“What are you doing here?” Yuri asked, although his question was soft and loving rather than blunt and sharp. Grandpa could visit any time he liked. Whether it was mid-season or on holidays or just in passing, Yuri would never pass up the chance to spend time with him in person rather than just talking over the phone.

“I was planning to come next week, but Viktor told me about your accident at the rink. He said you were really distracted and ended up hurting yourself, so I came as quick as I could.”

“Really? You came just for me?”

“What do you mean _just_ for you, boy? You mean the world to me, you know that. Come here.”

They hugged again, Yuri carefully burying his face in his Grandpa’s shoulder and exhaling deeply. Now that he was feeling a little better, he could begin to rationally approach the situation regarding Otabek. Maybe his Grandpa could offer him some advice. Unlike Viktor, he wouldn’t panic and immediately contact local authorities, and unlike Yuuri he wouldn’t try to take control of the situation and fix it alone. Besides, Yuri didn’t need _help_ as such… Just someone to vent to.

“You want to go out and get some dinner?” Nikolai mumbled into Yuri’s ear. Yuri nodded against his neck, pulled back, and went to get his shoes.

Ten minutes later they were chatting idly while walking through the near-empty town centre. Most shops had closed and few pedestrians remained scattered on the streets, however Yuri knew of a brilliant restaurant that was open way into the night and sold great food for a cheap price. He ate there quite often when he was getting sick of Viktor’s vegan substitutes for meat and knew Grandpa would love it.

The topics of his skating, his Grandpa’s health, school, work and living with Viktor and Katsudon were raised and dropped with ease and not one awkward moment. Grandpa was like Otabek in the way that he could just listen and say the right thing at the right time, but otherwise let Yuri rant to his heart’s content. Sometimes Yuri thought his grandpa wasn’t really listening whenever he nodded at weird points, but he didn’t mind at all. He just liked spending time with him.

As per usual, the restaurant was warm and inviting and they quickly claimed a peaceful window seat so they could watch the sun slowly set. When he was little, Nikolai used to sit Yuri up on his shoulders in the evening and they would watch the sky change from blue to orange to lilac to black. The memories were simultaneously happy and sad: so much had changed since then.

“So, Yuratchka, how have you been? And I mean how have you _really_ been. What’s got you so distracted that you decided to faceplant the ice?” The small smirk on his Grandpa’s face strangely comforted Yuri. Nikolai wasn’t the kind to spill buckets of sympathy and pity, which was a nice change from Viktor and Yuuri’s constant worrying and babying. It made Yuri feel more grown-up and independent.

“Well… A lot of things.” The teen shrugged nonchalantly, scanning the menu despite knowing what he wanted. A salmon and pasta dish, same as always, with a glass of cranberry juice. He was buying for time, suddenly apprehensive to talk about what had been bothering him and ruining the pleasant mood.

“Hmm. Well, may I guess?”

“Sure. Have a field trip.”

“Something with Yuuri and Viktor?”

“Not really.”

“Your routine?”

“Eh. It’s hard but I’m pushing through.”

“… Your mother, maybe?”

“What? No, grandpa. I don’t wanna talk or think about her.”

“Sorry, sorry. Well… I have no idea.”

Yuri smiled from behind the menu, grateful that he was _trying_ at least and not even annoyed at the mention of his mother. Usually he’d react much more negatively whenever someone brought her up, but now he was so caught up in his internal dilemma and stresses and worries that he had no energy left to lash out.

“Wait. I forgot something.”

Nikolai was looking directly at him with narrowed eyes, forcing Yuri to make eye contact, and the blond could feel his breath hitch in his throat.

“It’s that Otabek, yes? Your new friend?”

Yuri’s silence confirmed the question and Nikolai leaned back in his seat with a satisfied smile. God damn it, the man always knew exactly what do say, even if he was playing dumb at first. He’d always been like it- whenever Yuri broke something when he was younger and was trying to play innocent, or when something was bothering him and he reverted to his default state of ‘internalise all visible emotions.’

Well, at least he could use this as an opportunity to raise his concerns.

“Has something happened with him?” Nikolai asked gently. It was best to leave Yuri to open up on his own and not push him too much.

“He’s... I don’t know. I don’t know what he is because he won’t _talk_ to me!” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned the screen around to show Grandpa the list of unanswered messages, the earliest being this time yesterday and the most recent being an hour ago. It would have been slightly better if Otabek had left him on ‘seen’; at least then Yuri knew he was online. Instead he was stuck in limbo.

“Well, he could be busy, Yuratchka.”

“Yes, I know that, but... I just…” With a sigh, Yuri ran his fingers through his hair, instantly exhausted again. Maybe coming straight out with ‘there’s a fair chance he could be dead’ was the wrong way to approach this.

“Okay, hypothetically speaking,” Yuri said, sitting up straight and folding his arms across his chest, “what if you had a friend who lived thousands of kilometres away, and he could be in danger. I’m talking _Silence of the Lambs-_ level dangerous. Just without the serial killer. Maybe.”

“What? Yura, I’m not following-“

“I think Otabek might be in trouble.” Talking hypotheticals wasn’t working, and Yuri was getting impatient. “He’s been acting really weird lately. Not answering me as much, cancelling plans to video call, texting weirdly. I wrote it off as him being busy, like you said, but then…

“There’s been pictures of him recently. He sent them to me. He’s got weird bruises everywhere, which he blamed on falling while skating. Answer me this, Grandpa: I understand smashing your nose into the floor but how the _fuck_ do you get a _black eye_ from skating?”

“Language.”

“Yeah, yeah. And yesterday he sent me another picture which had a weird man in the background. He had a bruise around his wrist so I Skype called him and mentioned the man, he then proceeded to freak out and make up some shi- some rubbish about him being a plumber. To fix bath pipes. Even though Otabek’s bath has been broken for months.

“And then, to make things even better, I get Viktor to enhance the image in Photoshop and the man is covered in Russian prison tattoos. And Otabek hasn’t answered me in over a day. And I’m completely stuck.”

Yuri sat back in his chair and sighed, happy to unload his concerns onto someone else, but still not feeling any better about the entire situation. Voicing them had made them feel so much more _real_ and the look on his Grandpa’s face told him that he was right to be worried.

“Well. That certainly is a problem.” Nikolai looked like he was about to say more, however was cut off by the arrival of their meals. He waited until the waitress had left before continuing.

“And there’s no other way to contact him, I take it?” Yuri shook his head in response. “Hmm. I’m afraid your only option is to wait, Yuratchka. If you haven’t heard anything from him in the next day or so we might have to look into contacting the authorities in Kazakhstan. Otabek is a national celebrity- people are going to recognise him.”

Hearing his Grandpa’s logic lifted a weight from Yuri’s shoulders, and he found himself nodding in agreement.

“When are you leaving?”

“I’ll have to leave tomorrow morning, I’m afraid. Keep me updated though. He seems like a nice boy.”

If his grandpa was leaving so soon, Yuri would have to make the most of their time together, which meant trying to put Otabek to the back of his mind and appreciating the company of the man before him. Though that didn’t stop him glancing at his phone screen every 5 minutes and aching to see that notification.

Grandpa was right: the only thing he could do was wait. Springing into action without knowing the full story would be foolish.

(But maybe he would have done something sooner if he was aware of the danger that was approaching his friend. And 4000km away, maybe Otabek would have acted to protect himself if only he knew that things were about to get a lot, lot worse.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said... dont get comfy lmao 
> 
> the thing that i made is that i fucking painted Sylvyan because she's ridiculous and i love her  
> https://otabeshka.tumblr.com/post/163798805179/otabeks-sister-has-awful-fashion-sense  
> Feel free to follow my tumblr but that particular blog is very new and I haven't used it much yet


	6. I Think I'm Drunk Enough To Drive You Home Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've swapped Yuri and Otabek's parts around because ... i wanted to
> 
> this chapter has graphic emotional abuse and physical abuse so pls be aware of that 
> 
> thank u all for your lovely comments i really love them and you guys ! as some of u might know im also writing another high school AU angst fic atm (check it out lmao) but the updates for this fic will still be consistent. I'm aiming for once a week.
> 
> i included a prayer in this but pls know that I'm not a muslim, so I'm sorry to any of my muslim readers if I've used it incorrectly. 
> 
> enjoy and im sorry in advance

**Yuri**

The intruding ring of his alarm clock was the most unwelcomed sound he had ever heard. He hated it on a good day, but when it was 7am and he hadn’t been able to fall asleep until the early hours of the morning, it was suddenly ten times worse. Yuri was tempted to yank the offending machine from the mains and silence it for good, but logically his brain told him that that would be a bad idea. He settled for actually _getting up_ and turning it off by the buttons.

“Fuck.” He groaned, rubbing his stinging eyes and stretching. If it wasn’t for Grandpa leaving today, he would have insisted on a lie in. Instead he forced himself to pull on decent clothes to see him off at the airport.

The night had been spent tossing and turning, shrugging blankets off and pulling them back on, relentlessly checking social media and searching for any distraction available. Even with Grandpa’s comforts and promises, the thoughts of _Otabek_ still drowned all rational thinking and rendered him desperate and helpless. If he didn’t get any indication that he was okay soon, Yuri was going to go crazy.

He felt like fucking Yuuri when Viktor disappeared for 30 seconds. The old man could be going to the toilet and Katsudon would be practically having a panic attack in the corner of the room, leaving Yuri to awkwardly pat his shoulder or kick him in the head- whichever sufficed at the given moment. Now that he was in similar shoes of panic and anxiety, he might be able to empathise with the Japanese man a little more during those situations.

Of course there had been no further word from his friend, and of course the Instagram messages remained unseen and unanswered. Yuri had even taken to snapchatting him, knowing It was futile because Otabek had deleted the app a few months ago after declaring it as ‘pointless and takes up too much space on my phone’, but now wasn’t the time for thinking straight. Desperation had set in and everyone knew Yuri was shit at dealing with strong emotions (see: throwing his phone at walls, punching things, pulling his hair, faceplanting the ice, going for a run at two in the morning and passing out on the nearest bench when he couldn’t be bothered to walk back home).

“Yurio! Hurry up, we’re driving Nikolai to the airport in ten minutes!” Viktor shouted up the stairs, far too cheery for such an ungodly hour. Ten minutes? No time for breakfast, barely enough time to chug down a mug of lukewarm coffee, and certainly no time to check all of Otabek’s social media again while he was still connected to Wi-Fi.

_Inhale, exhale, clear your mind. It’ll be okay. Your friend is fine; he’s just busy or lost his phone, you’re worrying about nothing._

Trying to convince himself of his own reassurances, Yuri practically threw himself down the stairs and into his Grandpa’s waiting embrace. The scent of coffee stirred something in his brain and for the first time that morning he felt like the 4 hours’ sleep he had received would be enough to function until he could pass out in the evening. Yakov said that he could take today off if he needed it, if his nose was still hurting, and even though the swelling had calmed and it only hurt when he scowled or sneezed he was going to take the old man up on that offer.

Skating while in his worked-up state would have been stupid, anyway.

“I’ll see you soon, Yuratchka, I promise.” Grandpa mumbled into Yuri’s ear, hands running down his grandson’s back as they held each other close. Yuri simply grunted and then pulled away to accept the mug of coffee that Katsudon was holding out for him.

The car journey to the airport was mostly quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Music that Yuri had never heard of spilled out of the early-morning radio channels and the soft sound of Viktor and Yuuri chatting amongst themselves in the front two seats was almost enough to make him drift off again. Nikolai had his arm wrapped around him, leaving Yuri no choice but to lean his head against his shoulder. Frequently he had caught himself wishing for a growth spurt so he could grow to match his Grandpa’s frame: taller, stockier, firmer, bigger in general. But instead he looked like his mother. Blond hair, green eyes and the frame of a ‘fairy’ to reference his nickname might have been beautiful to some, but to him it was a source of frustration.

He wanted to be dark, he wanted to be strong, he wanted black hair and brown eyes that sparkled with the perfect blend of danger and kindness. The Russian punk, not fairy, someone who would rock leather and motorcycles and…

Oh.

 He buried his head into Nikolai’s underarm and was sad again.

The rest of the car journey had passed in a blur and now, as he was saying goodbye to the family member he loved most, Yuri could almost feel tears prickling in his eyes. Every slight annoyance or sadness had been amplified in his bad mood and he felt five years old again. “Don’t look so glum, my boy. If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.” Grandpa said, holding him at arm’s length in front of the plane that was due to take off in ten minutes.

“That expression is dumb.” Yuri said with a shrug, pushing back the wave of emotion that threatened to choke him and gesturing towards the plane. “You should hurry, you’ll miss your flight otherwise.”

“Yes, I’m hurrying, don’t you worry.” Another hug and then Nikolai was pulling his suitcase towards the group of people who were huddled at the entryway, clutching their on-flight luggage and shouting over the noise of the vehicles around them. “Love you, goodbye! Oh, and Yuri? Update me on the situation with Otabek.” His grandpa shouted at him, gave him a wave and then was gone. Yuri was left feeling sadder than ever.

Viktor had promptly suggested a shopping trip to raise the teen’s spirits, and didn’t wait to hear whether anyone else was up for it before hopping back into the idling car and buckling his seatbelt. If he wasn’t walking around town aimlessly with the two idiots he lived with, he would just be buried under his bedcovers and trying to ignore anything that demanded his attention, therefore Yuri didn’t put up much of a struggle and seated himself in the back with his headphones in. Everything on his Spotify reminded him of Otabek too- from the playlists that the Kazakh had made himself to the artists and albums that he had recommended that were sitting smugly in Yuri’s ‘recently played’ section. He quickly exited out of the app and settled on the useless U2 album that had come free, courtesy of Apple itself.

Did he just admire Otabek? Is that why he found him so ridiculously attractive: because he wanted to _be_ like him? Because he was bored of himself and Otabek was everything he had ever desired to be? The man was effortlessly _cool,_ he didn’t seem to put any thought into how he acted or presented himself, it just happened as easily as breathing. Where Yuri had to fight for his image as the Russian Punk, Otabek could just walk down the street and people would part to make way for him. It wasn’t even his ‘resting bitch face’ as Yuri called it, or the black clothing and leather jacket; he just _existed_ in a way that took Yuri’s breath away and left him wanting more.

And his face. The shadow of stubble that Yuri was always jealous of whenever they Skyped. The freckle below his lip that disrupted the sheet of otherwise perfectly clear skin. The way he hated his boring brown eyes but Yuri thought they were the brightest thing in any room.

If only he had friends when he was growing up- then he’d be able to tell if these feelings were normal in a platonic setting, or something that ran deeper.

As expected, the shopping trip did little to make him feel better, and the sound of Viktor cooing at every passing store window was enough to make him wonder if crawling under his covers would have been a better idea after all. The three of them visited every store the older Russian dragged them into: clothes stores, home and leisure, even one full of handmade soaps and bath bombs that made Yuri’s chest hurt with how pungent it was. Had his mood been better, he would have been slightly grateful that they were _trying_ at least, but all he could concentrate on was his worries and sadness and the brick of dread that lay stubbornly in his stomach.

Even the weather sensed his dismay. The June sky was covered in a dismal layer of grey clouds, blocking out any sign of sunlight, and every now and then Yuri could feel the splatter of raindrops against his face. It was about to pour down any second and when Katsudon suggested they take cover in the nearest store, he didn’t decline.

“While we’re here, Yurio, we can get you a new suit for interviews!” Viktor beamed when he realised they had stepped into _another_ clothing store. Unlike the previous ones that were full of summer clothing for teenagers and young people, this one stocked suits and formal dresses and overpriced shoes.

“I don’t wear suits, old man. I do interviews in my normal clothing.” Yuri quickly responded with a roll of his eyes. A suit? _Really?_ Seeing Yuri Plisetsky in a suit was like seeing Katsudon amongst a huge crowd and not having a panic attack: very very unlikely to happen.

“Well, one day you’ll have to dress up nicely, and this is the perfect opportunity to prepare for that!”

Tragically, Viktor couldn’t be convinced otherwise, therefore Yuri simply left him to do his thing and walked around the shop alone while complaining at the price of everything. The cheapest shirt was 12000 Rubles, the most expensive made him cringe just glancing at the price tag. If Viktor thought _he_ was paying for this shit, he had another think coming. His usual Team Russia jacket was perfectly suitable for interviews. Besides, the press usually cornered him when he stepped off the rink, so more often than not he was wearing his skating costumes anyway.

He was getting bored and his mind started wondering to things he didn’t want to think about, and was about to demand that they left immediately when something caught his eye. In the back of the shop there was a rack of clothing, which obviously wasn’t unusual in the environment, however instead of white shirts and navy blue blazers the railing was bright with colourful garments that looked amusingly out of place. Unable to quell his curiosity, Yuri shouldered past some other customers in his mission to investigate.

The first thing he was able to distinguish was a red and white spotted dress. It looked like something out of a 1950’s film or magazine. Maybe it was supposed to go in the women’s section- Yuri had seen the sign for that department back when he was scowling at an array of ties- and had been put back here by accident. But then he saw a man’s waistcoat, clearly distinguishable from the other boring waistcoats by the fact that it was bright turquoise and adorned with sequins.

Fancy dress, maybe? Limited edition items that would ruin the stores reputation if they were displayed more visibly? They all seemed to have price tags and barcodes, so they were up for sale. It was a mystery why they were shoved so carelessly at the back.

Another dress after that, this one being red with a sash of holographic silver, and then a rather revealing one-piece that had uncomfortable-looking peacock feathers wrapping around the breast area. A pair of neon skin-tight jeans, a skirt that was more mesh than actual fabric, even a corset that looked like it couldn’t decide whether to be gothic or 80’s discotheque inspired.

And another thing, hanging alone at the back, forgotten amongst the vibrant material and extravagant patterns. A leather jacket that looked exactly like the one Otabek wore.

Yuri would have scoffed at the fact that a piece of clothing could make him feel so sad if he wasn’t suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

“I want this.” He said before he could stop himself, pulling the thing off the rail to go and show to Viktor and Yuuri. Obviously it would be just as ridiculously priced as everything else in this shop, but he was willing to pay for it if Viktor said no.

“I want this.” He repeated, walking up to Viktor and poking him on the shoulder. “I’m buying it. I didn’t pick out a stupid suit because they’re ugly and useless.” Stubborn confidence was the way to get around the older Russian, Yuri had learned that early on, and it seemed to work this time as well since there were no complaints as he walked away towards the cashier.

In the end, Viktor paid for it anyway and refused to tell Yuri how much it was.

He pretended that he didn’t know why he wanted it; it wasn’t as if there were any tiger stripes or cheetah prints that made a common appearance on the rest of his clothes, it would probably be too big for him and make him sweat once the sun had broken through the clouds. Really, he should take it back and just get a boring suit like he had been instructed to do in the first place.

And yet he didn’t. He shrugged it on, put the tag in the nearest trash can, and pushed back the wild hope that maybe the smell of leather would make him feel like Otabek was closer.

 

**Otabek**

The morning sunlight was usually described in poems as being a source of beauty, rays of rose gold that dripped onto its surfaces to bless them with tranquillity and peace. Imagery of this sunlight escaping through the crack in a pair of curtains made frequent appearances in art- modern or traditional, paintings or writings. Many compared it to the kiss of a mother or the touch of a child.

But to Otabek, the morning sun was a reminder that he had another day to live through, another series of problems to face, another fear and stress that made him want to rip his skin off. Not only did it burn his eyes when he forced them open at 6am, but it burned his fragile malnourished skin and left a raw pain that screamed when it rubbed against his clothes.

He hated sunlight, yet he was afraid of the dark. Typical.

“Pull yourself together, Altin. You’ve got stuff to do.”

This morning, instead of checking his notifications before slipping out of bed, his phone remained untouched on his bedside table, where it had been for the past two days. More than likely it was out of battery; he hadn’t charged it for a while, and the ‘20% remaining’ notification had flashed across the screen while he was Skyping Yuri the day before. Still, he pocketed the thing after he had got dressed. Better safe than sorry.

“Sylvyan? Come on, lovely, time for school. We’re not late today.” Otabek whispered, nudging his sleeping sister awake. Her bed looked so comfortable and he longed to slip in next to her. But education was important, and he had to get to the rink.

“Hmm? Beks?” Her sleepy voice mumbled from underneath her favourite blanket. She had fallen asleep wearing her blue beaded necklace, a sight that made Otabek smile.

“Who else would it be baby?”

“M’dunno. Have I got to go to school?”

“I’m afraid so. I know its shit, but it’s necessary.”

“Naughty boy, no swearing in my bedroom. Put a penny in the jar.”

Their morning routine progressed the same as it usually did, the only hiccup being a brief argument that revolved around whether she could wear her heart sunglasses and necklace to school. Otabek had firmly stated no, Sylvyan had counter-acted with the very convincing argument of ‘ _but I look more fashionable than a_ Vogue _magazine_ ’, and what could he say to that? He firmly drew the line at her wearing her cargo pants over her school trousers however. Although that didn’t stop her from stuffing the entirety of her new outfit into her schoolbag when her big brother wasn’t looking.

The bruise around Otabek’s wrist looked worse than ever. You didn’t need a trained eye to see that the shape of a handprint was clearly visible; bands of blue and purple stained his skin in the perfect silhouette of fingers with fingernail cuts all meeting in a tell tail line. Splashes of mute yellow covered the rest of the area, darkening here and lightening there and altogether creating the image of a very painful injury. He had held it against a bag of frozen peas last night, which helped soothe the pain slightly, but now it was back to throbbing and aching and protesting as he wrapped gauze around it.

“God, it looks like I fucking self-harmed.” He muttered tiredly to himself once he was alone in the bathroom, purposely avoiding the mirror because he knew he looked like _death_. Sylvyan had kindly pointed out his dark under-eye circles and tousled hair- which desperately needed cutting since the cropped part of his undercut was longer than it had been for years- and even _thinking_ about shaving robbed him of energy he just didn’t have. To make matters worse, his lips were chapped to the extent that that his bottom lip split when he sneezed. Another pain and another hassle to add to the list.

It was raining outside, looking like it was about to storm, which was annoying as there wasn’t a bus route to Sylvyan’s school. They walked there every day. Usually the 20-minute trek was at least somewhat enjoyable, with Sylvyan talking non-stop and Otabek happy to listen, but today he was in a bad mood and highly doubted that his weakened body would be able to cope with the rain without him getting sick. On the plus side he could just walk a block or two further from the school and catch the bus straight to the rink.

Sylvyan didn’t seem to be affected by the weather and chatted happily as always.

“Y’know, Beks, I don’t want to be a princess when I grow up. Or a nurse. I want to be a snake-wrestler.”

“A snake-wrester, eh?”

“Yeah, like crocodile Dundee, but without the crocodiles. Do you think I can do it?”

“I think you can do anything baby.”

He loved hearing her rambles, the hilarious things that she came out with, and the sad stuff, too. Famous poets had nothing on the wisdom of children. She seemed to sense when her brother was having a particularly bad day and didn’t complain as much as usual, occasionally slipping into bed with him for a hug, yet at the same time she was fierce and stubborn and made her own path.

She had the confidence that Otabek wished he still had. Before it had been steadily drained out of him and left him a passive, broken mess.

_Broken. How cliché._

He could force himself to laugh about it, but the laughs grew emptier and emptier with each passing day.

At the school gates he gave her one final kiss and one final scold when he found out she had snuck her teddy bear into her bag as well as her clothes, and then mentally prepared himself for the lecture from his coach regarding his bruises and stand-offish attitude when confronted a couple of days prior. Even if he did have good intentions, Otabek wished that he would just _mind his own business_ and focused on his program instead of his personal issues.

For the most part, it was coming together very nicely indeed. The jumps were solid, he rarely wobbled when he landed a quad (unless he hadn’t eaten for a couple days), the choreography was mostly sticking in his head and he was beginning to connect with the music enough for it to look passable. He always did have trouble remembering new routines, something that frustrated Umar to no end, but he was trying as hard as he could.

The money that came from medalling- even just bronze- would lift a huge weight off his shoulders.

Jumps required power and strength, which Otabek had plenty of, so he could usually clear those easily. But his spins were weak and his step sequences were miles away from looking gold-medal-impressive. He blamed it on his stiff joints and lack of flexibility, and knew he had to dedicate most of his time to polishing his performance and perfecting every small detail.

The music he had chosen was a string piece, orchestras of violins and cellos that started sombre and mellow at the start before speeding up towards the middle. It was loud, it was awesome, it made him want to cry at the irony of using such a dynamically beautiful piece combined with the theme of ‘empowerment’ while he was in this situation.

He glanced down at his wrist again as he stepped off the bus.

_Yeah. Very empowering._

Sure enough, Umar was hot on his tail as soon as he stepped into the building.

“Otabek.” He begun, frowning as he approached his student. “You look awful.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m worried about you, you look like you’ve barely slept.” Otabek couldn’t stop his hands from clenching into fists as he fought back the impulse to lash out.

“I’m fine, coach. I just want to skate.”

“Listen, if you need to talk-“

“I said I’m fine.” Without concealing his annoyance, he pushed past the man before him, skating bag bumping painfully against his aching shoulders. The pain was welcomed. Without it he might have turned back around and cried against Umar’s chest, spilling everything, the way he was tempted to do when he first asked about his bruise.

He _wasn’t_ fine, he didn’t know what ‘fine’ felt like for fucks sake, but the words from the man had been constantly replaying in his head like a broken record.

_If you say anything to anybody about how you got that bruise, or about how your parents treat you, not only will I let my friends take care of you, but I’ll also let them take care of your sister. Got it?_

So for now, despite the nightmares he ran through when he was both awake and unconscious, despite his agony and the thoughts of ending it all, Otabek had to stay quiet. He had to be fine. He didn’t have any other choice.

In the 6 hours he spent at the rink that day, he didn’t achieve much except for strengthening a step sequence or two. Umar had suggested practicing his spins but by that point it was nearly the end of the school day and he had to pick up Sylvyan.

As per usual, the walk back to their house was uneventful, filled with his sister’s excited babbling about the Egyptians and mummification and hieroglyphs (whatever they were supposed to be). Otabek’s feet ached and the familiar sight of their house looked pleasing for once. Maybe he could have a nap while she did her homework.

He pushed open the front door and his heart froze, all thoughts of a nap immediately forgotten. His parents weren’t supposed to be back until _later_ , much later, yet here they were.

Stood behind the door, waiting for their children like a shark waits for its prey.

“You think you could get away with it, boy?” His father spat, glaring with a pure, uncontrolled anger that sent icicles through Otabek’s blood. He didn’t know what was happening, he didn’t know what he had done, but a single coherent thought was flashing in a neon warning sign: _run._

Sylvyan was gripping tightly onto the sleeves of his jacket. She sensed the danger too, that much was obvious, for she was barely breathing and the whites of her eyes glowed against her tanned skin as she stared up at papa. Though if Otabek had turned around, had shot a glance at her, he’d have seen that her skin wasn’t as dark anymore. She had turned a sickly shade of white that would have struck envy into a corpse.

The neon warning sign was demanding to be paid attention to, demanded to be obeyed, but instead of running Otabek simply stared.

A trickle of sweat rolled down his father’s forehead, catching in the creases and wrinkles that were exaggerated by his scowl. No, scowl wasn’t the correct word; the expression on his father’s face was that of a demon, with veins pulsing in his temples and spittle coating his chin and pupils so dilated that Otabek wasn’t sure if it was fury or drugs that had got him into such a state.

_He looked like a serpent._

Kissed by Medusa herself.

And so, so effective at turning Otabek into stone.

“You think you could get away with it, boy?” The words were repeated another dose of venom, accompanied by a step forward. Somewhere in the background, their mother loitered, arms crossed in a disapproval that seemed comical in comparison to the nightmare before them. He had no idea what his father was talking about- get away with _what?-_ but words dried up in the back of his throat and stuck like nauseating mucus.

“Wh-what are you talking about, papa?” Sylvyan spoke instead in a small burst of bravery. Her nails were digging into the bruise on her brother’s wrist, though neither of them noticed.

“You should know, you stupid brat. It’s your fault, I know it is, and now your _fuck-up of a brother_ is going to pay for it. Does that make you happy, Sylvyan? Does that make you happy?” He was shouting now, screaming almost, spit landing on every surface in a disgusting alcohol-scented flood.

The insult to his sister was the only thing that made Otabek click back into consciousness.

“Do _not_ shout at her! She hasn’t done anything! Hurt me all you want, but don’t you fucking _dare_ touch her, _Allah yil'anek_!”

(Later he would scoff at himself. As if their God would calm the heart of a true monster.)

“Hasn’t done anything? I’ll tell you what she’s done.” He took a step forward, swaying on his feet, and it was a wonder he remained upright. “Did you know that she told someone? The little bitch told a teacher, because she saw a _big scawy man with tattoos_ grab her brother’s arm, because her parents drink too much and beat the shit out of their eldest son as night time entertainment.

“Did she tell you that, boy? Or was she too scared? Because neither me nor your mother appreciated the phone call from her school asking if we were abusers.”

Sylvyan was crying, his father was ranting in a mania-coated scream, his mother stood with a silent smirk, Otabek simply stared. If they ran, there was no doubt their father would follow, and he couldn’t carry Sylvyan for long enough to get away. His knees were weak and his head was swimming and nausea was claiming the last remaining glimpses of control he had on the rest of his body.

He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to keep Sylvyan safe, he hadn’t prepared for this situation.

So Otabek did the only thing he could so, something he hadn’t done for years: he prayed.

“We’ve fed you, we’ve housed you, we’ve paid for your useless fucking skating and _this_ is how you repay us? _“_

_Allah suffices me-._

“We work _so hard_ for you, Otabek, you and that walking accident, and if we drink too much and hit you then that’s _entirely your fault-“_

_There is no god but He. On Him do I rely,_

_“-_ because without us, you’d be nothing! _Nothing!_ You’d be dead on the streets, which might be your fate soon anyway-“

_and He is the Lord of the great throne._

_“_ -covered in bruises that you _deserved_ and cuts that you _wanted_ -“

The screaming seemed to echo around the room, bounce off the walls, drill into his skull where it made every brain cell vibrate, and suddenly he couldn’t concentrate on anything but the fire in his father’s eyes. He lost himself in that moment. Otabek Altin was a ghost; in his place stood a scared boy.

The boy wore black jeans, a black t-shirt, a black leather jacket. But this time he wasn’t walking through an alleyway after shoplifting food, this time he wasn’t running wildly through the streets of Almaty with stones in his shoes and the scratches of bushes on his cheek.

This time the boy stood frozen, unable to breathe, unable to react as his father took a step closer.

A boy who could barely register the sudden silence.

A boy whose brain shut off to even the pleading of his sister.

A boy who couldn’t step back or run away or punch or fight or scream himself when his father wrapped his hands around his throat and _squeezed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... im sorry


	7. And If I Was Sober, Would I Rip Hearts Apart Like Paper?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cried while writing the first part of this lmao how eDgY
> 
> sorry Yuri's part is kinda shit, I rushed it bc I wanted to update Today
> 
> this chapter was kinda difficult to write and im not too proud of it but ehhh its out there! I love yall
> 
> also sorry that the characters are a tiiiny bit OOC but ... writing stoic characters having a breakdown is hard as fuck man

**Otabek**

Throat dry. Head heavy. Black dots swirling in his eyes. Blood that was pumping in his ears, pumping in his temples, wave after wave of pain crashing down on him like a meteorite on the surfaces of distant Jupiter.

But Jupiter was strong. Jupiter was powerful and intimidating, jaw-dropping and fascinating. The boy wasn’t any of those things. So while Jupiter would stand strong against a pathetic meteor, he simply tugged weakly on his father’s hands and stared into eyes of fire with blurry vision.

Maybe his sister was crying next to him, maybe she ran away to safety. Hopefully the latter.

She didn’t need to see him die.

 _Dying._ Everyone’s worst fear, apparently, according to polls and surveys. Dying came before ‘heartbreak’ and ‘failure’ every time. Dying was something that had plagued society from the first birth, and will continue to spread its disease until the last breath of mankind. Dying would come in the form of quick, unsuspected loss such as a car crash or suicide, yet it was also spectacularly good at seeping into bloodstreams in the form of a cancer. Life was a sand timer, his mother had always told him that, and every passing day was just another grain lost, eventually leading you with nothing. Dying was the sand running out.

At age 18, he didn’t realise how little sand he had left.

 _Sylvyan._ He thought of her first, her laugh and her jokes and her strength. Her stupid fashion choices that left him trying to hold back a smile. The way she would run her fingers through his hair when he was having trouble falling asleep, all the while complaining about how she was going to throw away his hair gel because she hated the texture of it. How she refused to confine to everyone’s expectations; when they wanted her to dress in pink, she wore cargo pants and her brothers leather jacket. When they wanted her to be a perfect housewife, she stayed up late watching Australian outback movies to prepare herself for the life of a snake wrestler.

_You’re going to do brilliantly, baby girl._

_Umar. Skating. My country._ He thought of his biggest passion next, flashbacks of memories filling him with euphoria, easily seen behind his blackening vision. No amount of injuries or discouragement could ever hold him back from the ice. Who cares if he wasn’t flexible, who cares if his body was stiff and he had to find a way to skate that was different than everyone else, he had given it his all and he refused to back down.

_Remember me, Kazakhstan._

_Yuri._ Blond hair that he dreamed of running his fingers through, green eyes that sparkled- no, he didn’t need to think of every minute detail. He’d done enough of that while he was lying awake at 3 in the morning begging for the bravery to ask for help. Now, in his half-conscious state, in his last struggles to find oxygen, the boy could only form a final thought before he knew it would be over:

_I love you. I always have._

Ten more seconds, that’s all it would take, before he would be free from this nightmare and wouldn’t have to deal with the pain and fear and dread that had become the norm for so many months and-

“Argh! Get off me, you little bitch!”

-and then the hands were gone. Vanished as quickly as they had arrived.

He sucked in deep breaths, greedy for oxygen, ignoring the hammering inside his skull. Only focusing on inhaling that precious, precious air. His legs were shaking significantly more than the trembling in the rest of his body, making him feel like his knees were going to give out, and he was about to give in and collapse to the floor when a persistent tugging on his hand managed to grab his attention just enough for him to look for the source.

“Beka! Beka, come on!”

A small girl’s voice. She sounded afraid and distressed, her lips were moving as if she was saying something, and maybe the boy would be able to hear her if he wasn’t gasping so loudly. Not important anyway, probably. He just needed to breathe.

“Please, Beks, you’ve gotta be quick!” The tugging didn’t stop; her hands had moved from his own palms and were gripped tightly on his sleeve. She was using all her weight to pull him towards the door, and in his weakened state the boy stumbled along with her. Just a few steps.

But a few steps were enough for Otabek to find himself and realise what was happening.

“Shit!” The effect was immediate. He suddenly forgot about the overwhelming agony and fear that lay like grime around his throat, and lunged towards the still-open front door. Too weak to carry Sylvyan, too weak to run very fast anyway, so it would be easy for her to catch up with him.

Where were his parents? Were they waiting outside? No; he would have noticed them walking past, or Sylvyan would have been pulling him in a different direction. There wasn’t any time to investigate or consider their other routes of escape. If his father got a hold of him again, he would kill him.

The neon warning sign was back, the word ‘ _run’_ flashing in his mind, though this time he didn’t freeze in his path to become bait for all who wanted to hurt him. This time his legs were co-operating and he took clumsy steps up the path, onto the street, nearly tripping over every rock and stone.

Sylvyan had stopped to grab something from the unkempt hedge that bordered their garden, but now she was in front of him and almost dragging him along with her.

Past the corner shop that sold magazines and fresh goods. Past the cemetery, past the run-down Church that sat next to it, past shocked pedestrians who had to dive out of the way to avoid colliding with these wild kids. Otabek had no idea where Sylvyan was taking him, nor did he really care. It wasn’t as if he had any better plans. All they wanted to do was get as far away from that house as possible.

They were nearing city centre by the time Otabek could really begin to feel the burning in his legs and the dryness of his throat, and Sylvyan clearly could, too, since she was now running alongside him rather than in front. But they had to keep going. Stopping for a second to turn around to see if their father was in hot pursuit could be fatal.

A group of tourists were crowded around Almaty Central Mosque, and they didn’t hesitate to cut straight through the middle of them. If their father was following, sticking close to other people would be the wisest thing to do. Not only would it make it harder for him to find them, but there would be more witnesses if the madman decided to choke them out in a busy area. Unpredictable turns, small alleyways, and cutting across grasslands instead of keeping to the pavement would further make them difficult to catch, and Otabek was leading by the time they entered an empty-looking village. No people around to stare or ask questions. No visible street signs that would give away where they were. No noise to mask a pair of footsteps following them.

In fact, the only thing this village had was silence. Silence that was broken by their panting and small sobs.

But not by footsteps or shouting.

Their father wasn’t following. They were safe.

“I… Oh. God.” Words were too painful for either of them. Sylvyan took a couple of shaky steps to the doorway of a closed-up shop and sank to the floor, head on her knees, trying to catch her breath and supress her crying at the same time. Otabek nodded in agreement and curled up next to her. His legs were hurting, his chest stung, his throat was probably hideously bruised and swollen- but they were alive. Sylvyan was exhausted, he was a wreck, they were both now virtually homeless. But they were alive.

Pulling his sister onto his lap, Otabek closed his eyes and willed his breathing to slow. The last few minutes (or, what he assumed were minutes- they could have been running for 5 minutes or 2 hours and it still felt the same) had been chaotic and terrifying, leaving them both feeling overwhelmed. It would take a while before either of them were ready to speak again.

Sylvyan recovered first. She sat up right and looked up at her brother with those brown doe eyes, made so much more heartbreaking by the wet tears that framed them. Otabek smiled sadly at her and tried not to burst into tears himself.

“You need a… a doctor, Beks. Y-your neck is so… poorly.” She gasped, reaching up to touch the newly-blossoming bruises, but thinking better of it and just leaning against him instead. She was probably right, Otabek admitted dully, but a doctor was out of the question. They would contact their parents because he had a kid with him. He’d rather his father had killed him than risk Sylvyan getting hurt.

Actually, how _was_ he still alive? The grip had been tight, his father was clearly aiming to kill him, he was so close to passing out, yet he felt like it had taken so _long_. Of course he was still in pain, his breathing was laboured and would probably stay that way until he healed… though he wasn’t on the brink of passing out. His vision was mostly clear. His headache wasn’t as severe as it should have been considering the circumstances.

Cautiously, he raised a hand to the affected area, expecting to feel awful swelling but instead was greeted with the damaged tissue of bruising and not much else. He cast his mind back to biology class. The neck contained the jugular and carotid veins, both of which would cause almost immediate knockout if pressure was put upon them, so his father must have missed the vitals. That left the cartilage and glands that were more towards the centre of the neck, as well as thick muscles. Like all muscle injuries, the neck muscles would hurt like fuck when inured, but wouldn’t cause death.

His fingers wandered to the sternocleidomastoid muscles, the scalene muscles, a few more that he couldn’t remember the name of. Oh, they hurt alright, he could barely keep his fingers on them for more than a few seconds. But it became pretty clear that his father had been squeezing on the sides and back of his neck rather than cutting his airways off.

Otabek smiled in spite of himself. Stupid idiot. Couldn’t even strangle someone properly.

“I think I’ll be okay, love. How did- what happened?” Thinking about the hands around his neck reminded him of when the hands suddenly _weren’t_ around his neck anymore. When his father had pulled away for whatever reason. Sylvyan’s smirk only intrigued him more.

“I used my gnashers.” She snapped her teeth together to reinforce the point. “I bit his arm real hard, and shook my head all around, and I think I made him bleed. He let go of you and went into the kitchen with mama, and that’s when I dragged you out, because he might have been getting a knife or something to hurt us with.”

Otabek just stared at her. His 7-year-old sister had saved his life in a tremendous act of bravery that he’d never be able to repay her for.

“And I also got these from the bush, just like you always said to do.” That was when he first noticed the luggage she was carrying. Her school bag remained on her back, since she hadn’t had a chance to take it off, however she was also holding onto two smaller black bags that were covered in dead leaves and mud stains. Otabek suddenly remembered what they were. So _that_ was why she had stopped to reach into the hedges before dragging her brother away from the house.

They didn’t contain much, he could list their contents with the fingers on one hand. He had hoped they never would need to use them, hoped that they wouldn’t be put in a situation that required such a quick getaway. Better be safe than sorry. And now he was grateful he had taken the precautions.

One bag was his, the other was Sylvyan’s. Each one contained a change of clothes, their passports, a small amount of money, a toothbrush, a couple of personal items. The passports were in there mostly for safety; just in case their parents one day decided to destroy them in an attempt to gain even more control, but the other items were for if either of them had to escape the house for a bit. If things were particularly bad at home, then they could just grab their backpack from their carefully hidden spots in the garden and be able to survive for a short amount of time. Otabek had put a piece of paper with directions to Umar’s house in Sylvyan’s bag, so she could find a place to stay for the night if she was ever on her own, along with a short and brief explanation. Like always, her safety was his priority.

Seeing them now caused tears to burn in his eyes. Such small, insignificant things, things he barely missed after they were stored away in the backpacks, and now they were the only possessions they had. The clothes were most likely too small, especially for Sylvyan, and there wasn’t anywhere near enough money for them to get a place to stay for the night. But despite the drawbacks, Otabek didn’t wipe away the tears that fell with gratitude as he reached for his bag. It would probably make a semi-decent pillow. The 5pm sun didn’t stop him from suddenly feeling exhausted and in need of a nap.

“Beks… What are we going to do? I don’t think I want to go back home.” Sylvyan sniffled. It wasn’t their home anymore and it hadn’t been for a long time. It used to be a house they lived in. Now it was dangerous and corrupt, the place where the horrors that Otabek had been experiencing were made crystal clear to the innocent eyes of his sister, and surely a death trap if they were to wander anywhere near it.

What were they going to do? He wished he could answer his sister’s question, yet he didn’t know himself.

He was crying freely now, small sobs that made his shoulders shake and hands tremble, trying to push back the urge to have a breakdown because he had to _think._ They weren’t going to be homeless, they _couldn’t_ , all of his hard work to keep them safe would have been for nothing if it meant Sylvyan had to curl up in a doorway and shiver herself to sleep. Couldn’t go to Umar; he would call the police or social services and Sylvyan would be taken away. Couldn’t go to the police because word would get out and-

Oh, _fuck._ He suddenly knew why his parents had disappeared into the kitchen.

The house phone was plugged in next to the sink, and Otabek knew for a fact that the only numbers that were logged into it were his mobile and a few companies. And one number he didn’t recognise. Probably the number of a friend.

They could be looking for him now, the people he owed money to, instructed by the tattooed man who would have carried out his promise to hurt them if anyone ever found out. Sylvyan had told someone at school about the man grabbing Otabek’s wrist, how their parents would shout and drink and hit, how her big brother was covered in bruises and had to steal food. No doubt his parents knew about the threats that the _serpent_ had made. No doubt they would have called him and let him have free rein.

It was only a matter of time before their luck ran out.

“Sylvyan, you put your outfit into your schoolbag. Do you have my scarf with you?” Otabek asked, sitting up straight and looking at her with a serious determination. How ignorant he was to think they were safe just because their father’s hands weren’t around his neck anymore.

She nodded and pulled her bag off to rummage around in it. Her lunchbox, reading books, bottle of water, orange crop top, heart sunglasses- there! The black cashmere scarf that now had a few pieces of lint stuck to it. She handed it to him with wide, curious eyes.

Without hesitating, he wrapped it around his neck, ignoring the pain, only focused on covering the black and blue bruising. They had run for several miles most likely, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. Their only hope was to get out of the country.

But how were they going to…?

A thought struck him, and he cursed loudly for not thinking of it sooner. For not trusting the only other person who meant anything to him.

His phone was on 11%. Hopefully it would be enough.

Otabek was still crying as he pulled up his contacts and called the only person who could save him.

 

**Yuri**

After failing all his jumps and refusing to stop for a break, Yakov had promptly sent Yuri home, much to the blond’s disproval. How was he going to win gold if he wasn’t even _allowed_ _in the rink?_ So what if he was letting his emotions get the better of him. So what if he was too distracted to attempt a quad salchow. That didn’t mean he was going to give up and take another day off.

Yakov had different ideas, apparently. It was mid-afternoon by the time Yuri, Yuuri and Viktor arrived back at the apartment; the other two had decided to cut training short as well, much to Yuri’s annoyance. And entire day spent confined in a tiny building with those idiots was his idea of hell.

“We can watch a movie, Yurio!” Viktor had excitedly proposed, probably mentally listing the new additions to _Netflix_ and trying to remember if they had any popcorn. The old man was always trying new ways to get them to spend time together. Occasionally they worked- Yuri couldn’t deny that he enjoyed going to a sports game one time, or visiting the beach (something he had done very rarely as a kid). Most of the time they ended with him locking himself in his bedroom afterwards and refusing to talk to them.

So, he had rudely declined the movie, and headed straight into said bedroom the second the door was open. His only plans for the evening included wallowing in self pity and scrolling through Instagram, trying to ignore how bad he felt.

“This must be what depression is like, I suppose.” He muttered to himself as he flopped onto his bed. It was unlikely that he was depressed in the sense of clinical depression, and he knew it was unfair to compare his sadness to such things, but he definitely recognised some of the commonly talked about signs. Lack of motivation. Finding less joy in hobbies. Shifting between feeling irritable and angry to feeling numb and empty. He had never been the happiest kid, but this was a sadness that ran bone-deep. Yuri quickly decided that he’d rather stick with his unmanaged anger problems than remain feeling this shit for any longer.

The sound of the movie echoed down the hallway from the living room, making him feel more alone than ever. He almost regretted saying no. Even if he curled up on his phone for the entire hour-and-a-half, at least he would be around other people, at least he would have the illusion of company. Katsudon and Viktor were complete morons but they sure knew how to make people feel welcomed.

Sitting alone with his thoughts had weird consequences, like Yuri catching himself subconsciously wringing his hands together or biting his nails. Like hearing his skate music playing perfectly in his head. Like imagining the sound of the ringtone he had assigned to Otabek. Like finding out he had picked more threads off his favourite blanket. None of these came with visual hallucinations, therefore he was often left to stare into space in his dim room, which was now lit up slightly by his phone for whatever reason-

Hang on. The music that was coming from his phone sounded too realistic to be imagined, it provoked an emotional response that was stronger than those that came from his daydreams. And if his phone really _was_ lighting up his room, then…

No, it was too good to believe. His brain had tricked him into almost _mourning_ Otabek for fucks sake, as if he was dead, as if he was never going to talk to him ever again. Seeing his name in a notification on Yuri’s screen was less likely than Jesus rising this very second. Still, he glanced over to his phone anyway, just to prove that it was another disappointing figment of his imagination.

And there, clear as the sky would have been if it wasn’t for the onset of a storm outside, were the words ‘Otabek’ glowing on his screen.

Yuri had never moved faster in his life.

Practically throwing himself across his bed, he grabbed at it in desperation, his brain already creating a string of curse words and insults to fire at the Kazakh for being so fucking _stupid_ and not getting in contact for days. After the horror of seeing the tattooed man, Yuri had constantly been fearing for his safety. Those emotions all came spilling out when he pressed the green ‘answer’ button.

“Otabek!” The Russian shouted down the microphone, unable to disguise his anger, and not really wanting to. Viktor and Katsudon wouldn’t be able to hear him over their movie so he had no reason for keeping his voice down. “You better have a good fucking reason why-“

There must have been a connectivity problem in Kazakhstan, because a strange noise was coming from the other end of the call. It wasn’t the familiar hum of static or the buzz of a call breaking. It sounded like sniffing, like someone was thumping against the screen. Yuri frowned and pulled the phone away from his ear to see if the call was still connected, which it was, therefore the strange noise wasn’t anything to do with the connection.

If it wasn’t technological, then it must have been…

“Beka?” Yuri asked, gentler this time. Listening.

Listening to the sound of his best friend crying on the other end of the line. The thumping sounds were sobs that were being disguised by deep breathing and hiccups.

“Hey, Beka, I’m sorry. I’m not angry, I’m just worried, because you-“

 _“Yura, please. I don’t have much time.”_ Otabek’s voice sounded _awful._ His throat sounded like he had been swallowing razor blades and hadn’t had a drink for god knew how long. A hint of desperation was detected in amongst the painful-sounding croaks, making Yuri snap his mouth shut with wide eyes. Something was seriously wrong.

“What? What happened?”

 _“I… I’m in trouble. I can’t… Oh, God.”_ He was close to having a breakdown, that much was clear. He was hyperventilating now, Yuri recognised the sound from the many times he witnessed Katsudon having a panic attack, and small whimpers highlighted how vulnerable he was. Yuri felt his heart break at the sound of his friend in such pain.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Beka. Just tell me what’s happened.”

Grandpa was wrong; he _should_ have been foolish and acted sooner. Whether it was something to do with the tattooed man or not, Beka was hurting. Yuri pushed his frustrations aside and mentally swore to do whatever he could to help.

 _“I’m hurt. Me and Sylvyan, we don’t... We might…”_ No matter how he tried, Otabek couldn’t get his sentence out before he was overwhelmed with another wave of sobs. It was scary. He was usually so stoic and collected, he was the emotionally stable friend who helped Yuri when he was consumed by anger, he was logical and strong. Now it seemed like the roles were reversed.

Yuri was about to say something again when there was another unidentified sound, another soft bang, but this sounded more like the phone being dropped than noises that came from a person. A few seconds later he could hear breathing again, though this time it was slower and calmer, much different than Otabek’s hyperventilating.

 _“Hello, Mister Pletsky.”_ Sylvyan’s voice sounded so grown up in comparison to her brother’s distressed rambling. Ironic since she was 11 years younger, but Yuri quickly grabbed this opportunity to get some answers. She was a sweet kid, perhaps the only person under the age of 16 he could tolerate. And like Otabek had said so many times, she was extremely intelligent.

“Sylvyan, hi.” He began, “what’s happening? Can you tell me?”

_“Some bad stuff happened, Mister. Beka won’t stop crying and we’re curled up in a shop doorstep.”_

Yuri bit back the urge to state that she needed to be more specific, and let her continue.

_“We got home from school and mama and papa were very angry. I told a teacher at school about them hitting Beks-“_

“Wait, what? What do you mean your parents were hitting him?”

_“No interrupting! There’s not enough time. Anyway, papa was furious and tried to strangle Beks, so I bit his arm and we ran away. And now we’re all lost and alone and don’t have any money or nothing and my teeth are hurting.”_

Her thick Kazakh accent paired with the bad call quality made her a little difficult to understand, but Yuri was certain he had heard correctly. He was certain because his heart had dropped into his stomach and was making him feel nauseous and dizzy all at once. The hair stood up on the back of his neck as shivers ran down his spine, and for a few seconds he couldn’t do anything but gape. Little kids liked to make up stories sometimes, sure. Though Otabek’s crying suggested that Sylvyan had never been more truthful in her life.

“H-how long has this been going on, Sylvyan? How long have they been hitting Otabek?”

 _“Oh, a while. They always have. It’s got worse recently though. Mister Pletsky, there isn’t much battery left on this phone. I don’t know what to do.”_ Her voice broke at the end of her sentence, and judging by the chaotic background noise, Otabek was still sobbing.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Don’t cry. I’m going to… I’m going to get an adult. Hold on.”

As much as he hated asking the two idiots for assistance, Yuri was only 16 years old, and honestly had no idea how to go about helping. Thank fuck Otabek had thought to come to him for help, but this wasn’t something he could solve alone. Conscious that the call could cut off at any time, Yuri pushed himself off his bed and ran into the living room, throwing the door open to confront Viktor and Yuuri. Their pointless film would have to wait. His best friend and his sister were in danger and he wasn’t going to let them get hurt.

“Yurio! Have you decided to join us-“ Viktor began, smiling that stupid heart-shaped grin of his. Which soon fell when he took in Yuri’s expression.

“Shut up. Listen, there’s a problem. I don’t know the ins and outs of it but… oh, fuck it. Sylvyan, can you explain, please?”

He handed Viktor the phone, happy to let Sylvyan recall the tale. It would take less time than it would if he attempted to recount everything he had heard. Besides, he wasn’t sure if he was mentally capable of saying more than a few words- an odd sensation of shock and dread had settled on his skin, leaving him feeling like he was going to burst into tears at any second. The thought of his best friend having a breakdown only contributed to his despair.

But no, he couldn’t cry. He had to be strong. Viktor was frowning deeply and leaning forward, phone resting between his shoulder and his ear as he typed on his laptop and spoke in rapid-fire Russian to the little girl in Kazakhstan. Katsudon looked extremely confused and was looking at Yuri as if he wanted an explanation. Yuri himself was alternating between running his hands through his hair and chewing on a hangnail.

Every weird thing that had been happening these past few months now had an answer, and the answer made him sick to his stomach and want to tear his skin apart.

The black eye and other weird bruises. The lack of messages. The way Otabek would apologise for every slight thing and feel like he had to explain himself. The exhaustion that laced his voice in every skype call and audio message.

His best friend was being abused and Yuri was too fucking ignorant to notice.

“No, no, don’t be silly Otabek. Don’t worry about the money at all. You can get the bus, yes? Try to keep some phone charge but don’t worry if you can’t.” Viktor was saying, his voice much more gentle and relaxed than it had been just moments before. He must have been talking to Otabek again. Yuri reached his hand out, wanting to say something to his friend, just get a couple of words in while he could.

“Beka?” He asked after Viktor passed the phone back. “What’s happening?”

“Viktor s-said… Ask him, I can’t talk much. We have to go. I’ll see you soon.”

And the line went dead.

Yuri stared at the blank screen, then up at Viktor.

“What the fuck? What happened?”

“I bought them both plane tickets. Almaty to St Petersburg, luckily the next flight is in a few hours. The little girl said they had their passports with them and enough money to get the bus to the airport.”

It was at least a 5-hour flight, maybe closer to 6, meaning they wouldn’t be arriving until around midnight. But that was okay.

“Oh, shit, I… Thank you. Thank you, Viktor.”

For once, Yuri didn’t feel ashamed to thank someone to passionately.

He left Viktor to explain things to Yuuri, and slipped back into his room. His heart was pounding as if it was him who had been hyperventilating over the phone. A part of him felt so disgusted in himself- how the _fuck_ didn’t he notice sooner- although the majority of his feelings were focused around a rush of relief knowing they would both soon be safe and a grey area of confusion. Otabek would soon be here in person and would be able to explain things.

The night was going to be hectic, and logically Yuri knew he should try and get a bit of sleep in, that he wouldn’t be sleeping much tonight and would be exhausted in the morning.

But he couldn’t, he didn’t try to fight the truth. Sleep was impossible- physically and mentally.

Instead, he settled on glaring at his clock, willing for time to pass more quickly so he could hold his best friend in his arms.

The next few hours of waiting were going to be the worst hours of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i made up/guessed a lot of the stuff relating to neck medical knowledge, and no, i have no idea how planes and airports work because i've never been to one before lmao
> 
> after this the chapters will be one whole section, not split into yuri/otabek like they have been previously


	8. If There's No One Beside You When Your Soul Embarks, Then I'll Follow You Into The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a little longer to post!! I got a job so i dont have as much free time unfortunately :~(
> 
> this chapter focuses more around Yuri and his Inner Angst, with a bit of Beka at the end. I hope yall like it!! (disclaimer for this chapter: again, I've never been to an airport in my life, so I'm talking out my ass for most of the descriptions)

5pm.

Viktor made some disgusting bean soup for dinner, insisted that Yuri eat at least a few spoonful’s, pretended not to notice when the teen threw most of it in the trash. None of them were really in the mood for a meal. Yuuri had reacted poorly after Viktor had explained everything, almost having a panic attack, and now was pacing up and down the living room, muttering to himself and obsessively glancing at the clock. Any other time Yuri would have made fun of him. Now he just sighed and excused himself to his room.

Questions were buzzing in his mind, some logical, most nonsensical and wild. Distracting himself didn’t work, no matter how much he tried. His train of thought always returned to the same thing: the safety of his best friend. They wouldn’t be on the plane just yet, maybe they’d be sitting in the waiting room, or going through customs, or even still on the way to the airport- Otabek always complained about how slow Almaty’s buses were. Yuri tried to convince himself that everything would be okay, but of course that didn’t ease his paranoia.

6pm.

After making himself a mug of camomile tea, the teen collapsed on his bed and practiced those dumb breathing exercises his old anger management therapist had taught him. He had been 13 at the time, and vividly remembered rolling his eyes to every pointless ‘coping method’ she had offered. Count to ten? He wasn’t a 5-year-old. Punch a pillow? Only if the pillow was 1 inch thick and was taped to a brick wall. Eventually he had given up, stating that she ‘made him angrier’, yet now he was miserably trying to recount the conversations and found himself flicking a hairband against his wrist just like she had told him to do.

Sylvyan hadn’t really said much about any injuries with the exception of an apparent ‘strangling’, which left Yuri’s morbid creativity to fill in the blanks. Anything from another black eye to a gruesome array of cuts and bruises could be covering Otabek’s skin. And the little girl herself- she was clearly terrified, but was she physically hurt? Somehow Yuri doubted that. He knew Beka, he knew how much he loved his little sister. More than enough to put himself in the firing line of his parent’s violence just to keep her safe. And while it might have been successful any other time, this time it had ended with his father’s hands around his throat and the two of them running for their lives.

7pm.

The tea helped, and his mind was slightly clearer. Viktor and Katsudon seemed to have calmed down significantly, too, and were now talking to each other in the hallway. A few bangs echoed around the small apartment and Yuri pushed himself out of bed to investigate.

“What’s going on? What’s with the thumping?” He scowled, looking around at the mess of boxes that were now decorating the carpet. The door to the storage room was open and the old light bulb inside was pathetically attempting to illuminate the room, though it occasionally flickered in a way that suggested it was going to give out at any moment. Yuri hadn’t bothered to look inside before; old boxes weren’t a subject of interest to him. Now he could clearly see the faded baby-blue wallpaper and a brown wooden floor that was mostly concealed by unwanted items.

“Otabek and his sister are going to need somewhere to sleep. We can’t just throw them on the couch, can we? Not after everything they’ve been through.” Viktor explained, wiping sweat off his brow after he had finished lifting a particularly heavy case.

If his intentions were to completely empty the room, it was going to be a long job.

“We can dump most of this stuff in the living room for now. I’m pretty sure there’s a spare bedframe in there somewhere, though I’m not sure what we’re going to do about a mattress.”

“ _Ikea_ doesn’t close until 10pm.” Yuuri suggested. He pushing a curious Makkachin away with one arm and holding a box in the other, looking like he’d take any excuse to get out of the house. He glanced at Yuri in an unspoken invitation to get some fresh air.

“Yeah. Me and Katsudon will go. You can stay here and haul boxes around, old man. Don’t do your back in.”

“Pleasant as always, Yurio. Get some blankets and pillows too.” Viktor directed, and watched as the two of them left the apartment.

8pm.

 Traffic, rain, and Katsudon’s shitty driving meant that it took them way too long to get to the shopping district. _Ikea_ was surprisingly still fairly busy considering the late hour, making Yuri anxious that he was going to get recognised, but he managed to push his worries away and focus on choosing the biggest, comfiest mattress for his friend to sleep on. Knowing about the pain and struggles that the Kazakh had been through was making Yuri uncharacteristically protective. He shouldered Yuuri out of the way so he could get first decisions at what pillows they should buy, and then stubbornly pointed at a very overpriced mattress that would give Viktor’s bank account a headache.

“How are we going to get this thing back, moron?” Yuri asked, watching the shop attendants struggle to manoeuvre the thing towards the checkout area. The car didn’t have a big enough trunk for an entire mattress.

“Uh… I assume we can get it delivered? If we say it’s an emergency, I think they could send it over now. Would probably cost a bit more but we don’t have much choice.” He was right, of course; Viktor clearly intended to have the room set up by the time Otabek’s flight arrived, and Yuri would rather sleep on the floor and give them his bed than have them sleep on the couch. Hell, he’d sleep on the doorstep if it meant he could see Beka and Sylvyan safe and comfortable.

Being recognised in public apparently had its perks, after all: Yuri managed to persuade (and threaten) the staff to give them immediate home delivery, even though it was past the allotted time to do so. The offer of double payment and being snarled at by Russia’s youngest darling skater resulted in most of the night workers hauling the mattress into the delivery van as soon as it had been paid for. Driving back was a lot easier than driving to _Ikea_ , and soon both vehicles were pulling up outside the apartment.

9pm.

The storage room was pretty much empty, a rickety bedframe was pushed against the wall, and Viktor was removing cobwebs with a feather duster when the door flung open to reveal a grouchy Yuri and a crew of terrified _Ikea_ workers gripping a mattress. The blond had clearly worked his magic in the art of scaring people into giving him what he wanted, causing Viktor to supress a smile as he adjusted the thing onto the frame and begun to make the bed.

“I hope Otabek and his sister won’t mind the poor décor.” Yuuri said with a frown. Room redecoration would have to wait for another day regardless of how gross the wallpaper and floorboards looked. Paint took hours to dry, and the three of them had more important things to worry about, anyway. At least they now had a bed and some blankets.

“I think Otabek is going to be more than grateful just to be cared about.” Viktor replied, looking sad and tired.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, judging by some of the things the little girl said…” A sigh escaped the Russian’s lips. “He’s only 18. People seem to think that when you turn 18, you’re immediately an adult. I was a mess at 18. He’s still a kid, and a very emotionally damaged one at that. He can’t expect to cope with this alone.”

Yuri looked up immediately, eyes wide, an expression of shock and mild fear that was directed straight at Viktor. “Did his sister say anything else? What did she tell you? Is he hurt?” His words tumbled out in an almost-unintelligible stream. Sylvyan had spoken to Viktor a lot longer than she had to Yuri, therefore it was entirely possible that she had revealed something that Yuri didn’t know about.

“She was… concerned. She seemed very clever for such a small girl.”

“Elaborate?”

“She said, and I quote, _“Beks didn’t want me to see mama and papa hitting him, but I saw it anyway, and he has a lot of bad bruises on his lovely skin.”_ Obviously, that isn’t much to go on, and we don’t know the full extent of what was happening.”

Yuri wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something, he wanted to lock himself away, he wanted to go and skate his frustrations out and not care about the consequences. Self-hatred of the purest form was pulsing through his veins and every new detail about his best friend’s misery made him curse himself for not _noticing._

How didn’t he notice? He knew Otabek more than anyone else. He knew that the crinkle in the corner of his eyes only appeared when he was happy. He knew that he loved the _Lord of the Rings_ novels but hated the movies, he had a sweet tooth and drank herbal tea by the bucketful, he could bench press 200 pounds but hated cardio. Otabek was the closest friend that Yuri had ever had. And between the smiles and laughs and light-hearted conversations, Otabek was getting the shit beaten out of him.

Black eyes didn’t appear from skating. He was going to brand that sentence into the back of his mind.

And through it all, through the self-hatred and confusion and concern and _fear,_ Yuri also held onto a feeling of confusion. He was confused as to why he didn’t notice.

Because he had been through the exact same thing.

10pm.

Rain was pattering angrily against the windows, and occasionally a rumble of thunder echoed around the house. The sun had set a couple of hours ago but the introduction of the storm made the outside world look eerily darker. Viktor had pulled all the windows closed and blankets were tossed against doors to keep out any cold drafts, a few candles were dotted around the house in case there was a power cut, and Yuuri was pretending that he wasn’t completely terrified of lightning.

All in all, two things were made certain: their moods weren’t going to improve any time soon, and they were going to get very, very wet when collecting Otabek and Sylvyan from the airport.

Yuri had always hated Literature. He didn’t see the point in writing essays about novels and couldn’t care less about the difference between a juxtaposition and an oxymoron. But now, staring out of the window at raindrops chasing each other like children on the playground, he could only bitterly scoff at the irony of pathetic fallacy.

He was hungry, he realised absent-mindedly. His stomach was growling and demanding to be fed. He had a slight headache as the result of stress and anger, could probably do with taking a couple aspirin, yet he was not motivated to do anything but sit and stare. Time was moving far too slowly and the ticking of his watch, the clock on the wall, the digital time on his iPhone were constantly mocking his frustrations.

There had been no further word from Otabek, however that could have been because he had turned his phone off for the plane or because the battery had finally run out. Either way, Viktor was certain that the plane would have landed by midnight. Half past by the latest. Another glance at his phone showed that yes, it was still 10:32pm, and no, an entire hour hadn’t passed since the last time he had checked the phone approximately thirty seconds ago.

In the end he gave up and lay his head on the windowsill. Maybe he let a couple of tears fall, but no-one needed to know about that.

11pm.

Lightning. Illuminating the room and casting ghostly shadows across the walls.

Thunder that boomed and made hearts pound in chests. Puma Tiger Scorpion was mewling somewhere distant.

Rain, harmless water, now a violent waterfall pouring from the heavens.

Clouds screamed across the sky, billowing in greys and blacks and deep purples.

And Yuri pretended he couldn’t feel anything.

11:15pm.

“Yurio, don’t you have a raincoat? I don’t think your jacket will keep you very dry.” Viktor questioned, zipping up his parka and stepping out of his slippers to replace them with outdoor shoes. Google had insisted that it wouldn’t take them 45 minutes to drive to the airport, yet Yuri demanded that they left early anyway. He was getting sick of feeling useless and miserable and would rather wait in the airport for 20 minutes than remain at the apartment for a moment longer.

“My raincoat is at the bottom of a suitcase somewhere. Don’t have time.” He replied bluntly, hoping that his jacket was miraculously a lot more waterproof than it looked. No doubt his legs would get soaked and he would be flicking wet strands of hair away from his face until he could have a warm shower.

That was a point: what were they going to do when they came back? Demand that Otabek tell them about everything that had happened? That didn’t seem fair, especially since he would most likely be exhausted and still shaken. Plus, it would be late, and judging by the dark circles under Viktor and Yuuri’s eyes, everyone would be grateful to rest after such a stressful day. Katsudon’s hour-long panic attack clearly highlighted their weariness.

Yuri wondered if Otabek would try to maintain his stoic persona, or if he was as much of an emotional wreck in real life as he was over the phone.

If the latter proved to be the case… Yuri usually hated being touched by anyone but his Grandpa, but the thought of cuddling with a sobbing Otabek didn’t sound like a particularly horrible idea.

11:30pm.

The car ride was nearly silent, save from the swooshing of the windshield wipers and Viktor and Yuuri exchanging a few worried words. Sometimes Yuri could catch their sentences- _“do we have a first-aid kit at home?”_ being one that stuck in his mind- although he made no distinct effort to listen or care. He was too focused on trying to stop his hands from shaking.

He wished he was seeing Otabek again in better circumstances. The thought of seeing such a beautiful man so _broken_ made him want to start crying all over again, but it seemed as If he was all cried-out. Even his anger and self-disgust had faded away, leaving sadness and anxiety to dominate.

“Yuri?” Viktor was trying to get his attention. Yuri caught his gaze in the rear view mirror and raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t overwhelm them when they get off the plane, okay? I know you want to hug him and question him or whatever, but we don’t want to make him feel interrogated. I doubt he would have slept much on the plane, and-“

“Yes! Yes, I know. I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to hold a fucking interview.” The blond snapped, patience wearing thing, his fatigue and worry getting the better of him and making him cranky.

“Alright, alright, calm down. I told Yuuri to stay in the car. The little girl said they didn’t have much luggage on them, only a few backpacks, so we don’t have to wait around at the baggage claim.”

Only a few backpacks? Yuri couldn’t help but wonder if they had time to grab enough clothes. Probably not, considering what Sylvyan had said about her biting their father and immediately running away. That would mean that they practically left their entire _life_ back in Kazakhstan… not just their clothes, but valuables, photos, memories, pieces of them that were now lost thousands of kilometres away. Otabek had been so proud of his country, and now he was fleeing and abandoning everything he stood for, all because of two people whose hearts were so black that they didn’t feel an inch of regret when they were hurting their little boy. He had never met Otabek’s parents, nor did he know much about them, but Yuri was certain that he hated them with all the malice in his heart.

“Sylvyan.” The word came out without him realising he had said it.

“Pardon?”

“Her name is Sylvyan. Not ‘little girl’.”

“Sylvyan. That’s a nice name.” Viktor said with a nod. “How old is she?”

“Seven.”

“Oh. I’ve never looked after a child before.”

“She’s fine. She’s the polar opposite of Otabek, though. I always hear her yelling in the background whenever we Skype. She calls me ‘Mister Pletsky’.”

“Can… Can she speak English?” Yuuri asked nervously. The Japanese man was yet to master Russian, and the thought of having to live with a child who couldn’t understand him would make anyone feel awkward.

“Yes. She speaks better English than Otabek, apparently. Though she knows Russian and Kazakh as well.” A smile almost graced his lips as he talked about her. She meant the world to Otabek, and so she was important to Yuri, too. If it wasn’t for the sorrow in his heart he would have been excited to meet her.

11:45pm.

The car pulled into the airport carpark and Yuri swore he was about to throw up. He gulped in fresh air when he stepped out, not caring about the rain, not caring about Viktor’s concerned glances. The nerves had blossomed into a borderline panic and he could feel his legs shaking as the two of them walked into the main building. He had no idea what to expect; it wasn’t as if he was _nervous_ to see his best friend, but rather to see what they had _done_ to him. The feeling of protectiveness was coming back and he had to grit his teeth to stop himself from sprinting onto the runway.

Glowing numbers, symbols, and words created a painful picture on the flight status board that hung from the ceiling. St Petersburg airport was an impressive building, and one could easily get lost if they took a wrong turn or were hurrying to get on their plane. Luckily Yuri had been there countless times before and knew how to navigate his way around.

He scanned the board, desperately looking for the one he needed. If it was delayed he didn’t think he would be able to stand another hour or so of waiting. After several minutes of glancing back and forth over each flight and arrival time, he made an annoyed-sounding grunt, and tip-toed up to Viktor’s height so he could see where the older man was pointing.

 **_Flight:_ ** _BWE353. **From:** Almaty, Kazakhstan. **Status:** Airborne. **Arrival time:** 12:04am._

Seeing it in words made everything feel so much more real. Before, his head had been alternating between a sensation of fuzzy numbness and bursts of anxiety, but now his senses were heightened and Yuri fought the urge to put his hands over his ears and close his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Viktor asked, sensing the teen’s discomfort.

“Yeah. Just…” The words stuck in his throat and he settled on shrugging. What could he say, anyway? There weren’t enough words in either English or Russian to appropriately convey what he was feeling.

“I know. He’ll be okay. We’ll look after him.”

Yuri simply nodded.

12:00am.

Four minutes didn’t seem long when he was procrastinating, lying in bed, watching a film, talking to Otabek.

Now it felt like time had never passed slower.

Yuri nibbled on his bottom lip and willed the clocks to tick faster.

12:01am.

Because it didn’t want to wake pedestrians, the airport didn’t release planes after a certain time, therefore the arrival area was mostly full of people anxiously waiting to greet their loved ones. A couple of other flights were expected to arrive from Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Nepal, Canada and Portugal respectively. Some had been delayed and weren’t due until the early hours of the morning, although that didn’t stop friends and families from filling up the arrival area and chatting loudly amongst themselves.

It was loud. Yuri was a loud person, and he was used to the cheering and screaming of fans, but now all he wanted was silence.

12:02am.

Someone shouldered past him, and Yuri barely noticed. He was too busy staring into the distance until his vision blurred. Because they probably weren’t going to the baggage claim, Otabek and Sylvyan would come straight off the plane and into the arrival area, and hopefully the other people who were waiting for visitors from Kazakhstan wouldn’t recognise them. No-one had recognised the top figure skaters of Russia yet, so it seemed as if there weren’t any hardcore figure skating fans present.

The last thing they needed was pictures all over social media.

12:03am.

“Yuri?”

“What?”

“You’re holding your breath.”

“Sorry.”

12:04am.

The airport suddenly came alive with the sound of rumbling, but this time it wasn’t from the storm outside. It was the distinct echo of an airplane coming in to land.

“Viktor. Viktor what if his face is all smashed up. What if he needs to go to hospital.” Yuri clutched onto Viktor’s arm, looking him straight in the eye, his face a picture of agonising fear. Viktor almost felt his heart melt at the sight of the teen in such pain. Ever since he first met him, Yuri had been strong and aggressive and stubborn, but now he was reduced to a wild-eyed mess that made him look so much younger than 16.

“I’m certain Sylvyan would have said something if he was close to dying, Yuri. It’s okay. Do you want to stay here when I go to pick him up? You can-“

“No. I’m going with you.”

“Okay, Yuri. Okay.”

12:20am.

One by one, passengers appeared in the doorway, most of them looking half-asleep and uncomfortable. Those who had luggage to claim took a detour with their loved ones to the designated area, others ambled towards the exit, looking more like zombies than happy tourists. A mixture of Russian and Kazakh chattering floated around the room in a way that may have been poetic if it wasn’t for the tense circumstances.

Yuri narrowed his eyes to peer over the crowd, looking for the familiar undercut and leather jacket. The plane wasn’t a huge one, so there can’t have been many people aboard, yet Otabek and Sylvyan still hadn’t emerged. For a second Yuri’s heart skipped a beat when he realised that they could have gotten lost and were now aimlessly wandering around, however that didn’t seem likely; him and Viktor hadn’t taken their eyes off the entrance.

Even if they did miss him and Viktor, the other two would be able to find them easily. Blond and silver hair weren’t hard to misplace. But as the seconds ticked by, Yuri began to panic again, mentally listing the ways everything could have gone wrong. Maybe they didn’t board the plane in time. Maybe they hadn’t got through customs for whatever reason, and were currently shivering on the streets. Otabek’s phone was dead, so he couldn’t even call the Kazakh to find out if they were okay.

He hated waiting games.

12:25am.

Sylvyan saw them first. Their small height resulted in Otabek and his sister being concealed behind a group of older men, so of course Yuri didn’t spot them. At the sound of a child’s yelling he turned around quick enough to make him dizzy.

“Mister Pletsky! Mister Nikforv!”

She was waving wildly, clutching a bag in one hand and a sleeve in the other.

Yuri’s eyes trailed upwards, and noticed that the sleeve was attached to a jacket, which was worn by a person.

A person with a messy undercut and a scarf wrapped around his neck and a look of pain in his eyes.

“Otabek!” He couldn’t stop himself; he was running now, closing the distance between them, shouldering people out of the way without a second thought. Viktor might have been trailing along behind, shouting his name, but Yuri didn’t notice. The only person he cared about in that moment was standing at the other end of the room.

“Mister Pletsky! Be careful please, he’s a little bit delicate.” Sylvyan said, holding her hands out as if she wanted to stop him from barrelling into her brother. Even her words were lost in the air that was whistling past Yuri’s ears.

Otabek’s shoulders curled in forwards and he raised a hand to his temples. If Yuri had been a little closer, he would have seen the Kazak’s eyes flicker closed and the blood drain from his face. He would have seen Sylvyan’s head snap upwards to glance at her brother, would have seen her move her hand up to grip his elbow and ask him if he was okay.

By the time Yuri was close enough to notice these things, Otabek’s legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor.


	9. (Something's Got To Break You Down)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed the summary of this fic because the last one was boring
> 
> this chapter contains everyones reason for reading: Breakdown Beka, but only an introduction. breakdown beka will make many more appearances so dont hesitate to become attached.
> 
> thanks so much for the comments last time!! and sorry abt the cliffhanger lmao it was too good to pass up
> 
> hope u enjoy!!

Pain. That was the first thing he recognised. A throbbing in his head, behind his eyes, deep in his bones, clawing across his skin like the shadows of tree branches that slithered on the floor. Even with his eyes closed and brain only half-working, everything was too much; too bright too loud too angry, he could feel taste see smell hear the anger in the air. Anger from his parents, his father’s hands and his mother’s cold scowls.

Where was he? Why did everything feel so angry? Why was he so scared?

Had he been naughty?

God, no. He hoped he hadn’t been. He didn’t think his body could cope with the consequences.

So instead of opening his eyes to see why his breath was caught in his throat, he just lay still, on the cold floor of wherever he was. Pathetic and vulnerable. Fresh meat, as papa would say. Waiting for the blows of fists and scratching of fingernails.

Which didn’t come. There was no hitting, no yelling that made his muscles seize in panic, just him and his headache and the floor tiles. _Limbo_ was the first thought that crossed his foggy consciousness- maybe he had died, and was stuck in this endless void, a sepia-coloured oblivion that teased him from behind his eyelids. That was the only logical explanation to why there were no sudden impacts of pain. He had been bad- the only times he woke up like this were when he had been _bad_ and needed to be _punished-_ yet the punishment wasn’t coming.

He dared to breath. Burning lungs gratefully released the air he had been holding in, and the sound of his exhaling was so _loud_. Too loud for limbo. If he could breathe, if he could feel the shivers that ran down his spine, surely he wasn’t dead, right? Surely his heart wouldn’t be hammering inside his chest if he was an empty shell?

Pieces of memory came flooding back, bit by bit, answering questions he didn’t know he was asking. A collision with the floor; the back of his head was hurting like a deep purple bruise, not a headache. A hand on his sleeve, tugging, tugging to get his attention, tugging to ask him if he was okay with the pale pink voice of a little girl. A flash of yellow in the distance that was running towards him with concerned eyes and outstretched arms.

Other memories, too, though these ones weren’t colourful. They were black, brown, dark greys and sour greens. They had deep booming voices and terror and hands around necks. They kept him awake at night and dug their nails into his flesh, leaving semicircle indents, leaving the mark of a snake. He didn’t want to think about these memories. He wanted them to leave him alone so he could focus on the colours.

Purples and pinks and yellows were the colours of sunrise, and he’d do anything to stay out of the dark.

As his senses relaxed and he stopped feeling so overwhelmed, he became aware of the buzzing in the atmosphere, vibrations that echoed through the air in a busy disturbance. Some were distant, others were closer. It was the closer ones he noticed first. They were forming words, almost, they varied in pitch but didn’t rise above a comforting volume. A lullaby of ocean sounds that simultaneously made him feel curious and _so, so tired._ He also became aware of a strange pressure, a warm feeling at the back of his head, like someone had ran their fingers through his hair and was letting him use their hand as a pillow, a makeshift bed made for him and him only. He felt safer. Not completely safe, not yet. Although safe enough for him to focus on something aside from pain.

Stale, thick scents filled his nostrils. Old coffee. Dirty carpets. The abrasive sting of cleaning fluids. They weren’t pleasant, they made him want to gag and heave, but at least they were _real._ There was no denying the familiar scent of harsh chemicals and day-old coffee cups, and they were more than enough to reassure him that he wasn’t in limbo. Enough to make more memories resurface.

_“Take your shoes off before coming in. I’ve just washed the floor and there’s bleach everywhere.”_

_“Yes, mama.”_

_“Have you done your homework?”_

_“Not yet. Sorry.”_

_“Do it before your father gets home. You know how angry he gets when you don’t do as you’re told.”_

Small snippets of a childhood, a time where it didn’t hurt as much to smile. His father had got angry regardless. The smell of bleach had been corrupted forever, a reminder of a slap and a glare and being sent to bed without dinner. Before he would have frozen whenever he inhaled the fumes. Now they were helping him to ground himself, to collect his thoughts, to resurface.

He was safe. He didn’t know how he knew, how he was so sure. Something about the flash of yellow running towards him and the girls voice that came from pink-touched lips. Intuition told him that he wasn’t going to be hurt.

Otabek opened his eyes.

* * *

 

They had rushed to his side, Yuri obviously arriving first, Viktor just a few seconds behind. Otabek was crumpled awkwardly on the floor, one leg bent uncomfortably and his head was tilted in a way that made it difficult to see if he was breathing or not. His face was ghostly pale and Yuri almost had to choke back tears as he knelt next to his best friend, hands hovering over him, not knowing where to touch. Not knowing if he _should_ touch, because he looked so fragile. A glass doll dressed in black.

Sylvyan was crying and leaning over her brother. Her tears dripped on to his face as she pleaded for him to wake up, that it was a bad time for snoozing, that Mister Nikforv and Mister Pletsky were here to look after them. Shaking shoulders and hands gripped on to his jacket. As if she was trying to pull him up, make him walk again.

“Sylvyan, sweetheart. It’s okay. Sit back. He’s okay.” Viktor gently pulled her back so she wasn’t smothering the unconscious boy on the floor. He reached out a gloved hand to wipe the tears away, both from her face and the ones that had fell on to Otabek’s, and looked between them. Trying to decide who he should prioritise first. A crying child, or someone who might need medical attention?

“Yuri, can you take her, please? I need to sort him out.” A hand on her lower back directed her to the blond, and when she was clinging to Yuri’s arm instead of his, Viktor turned to Otabek. The first thing to do was reposition him so he was lying on his back; rescue position would require moving him too much, and Viktor wasn’t sure just how hurt he was. At least they’d be able to check his vitals with him lying on his back. With gentle hands, Viktor straightened his legs, positioning one of the rucksacks under his knees to elevate them and encourage blood flow to the heart and brain. Then he grasped the Kazakh’s hips to carefully manoeuvre him into lying flat, keeping his eyes locked to his face at every second. Searching for signs of awakening. Finally, and most importantly, he pressed two fingers to the pulse point on his neck and checked for breath.

“He’s going to be just fine. I’m pretty sure he fainted, which is nothing life-threatening.” When he turned his head to reassure the other two, he was met with the sight of Yuri looking more worried than Viktor had ever seen him, and Sylvyan using the end of Otabek’s scarf as a tissue.

Actually, he should probably remove the scarf, it might interfere with his breathing-

“No! You can’t do that, Mister Nikforv!” Sylvyan became animated again all of a sudden just as Viktor moved his hand under Otabek’s head, ready to lift him so he could easily take the scarf off. Instead of doing so, he turned to the little girl with a frown. Wondering what the problem was.

“Pardon?”

“He’s got a nasty bruise around his neck. It’s the colour of a blueberry, and it’s poorly. If you take his scarf off, then everyone will see, and mama and papa will find out and come and _get_ us!” A few more tears dripped down her cheeks, which she again wiped away. She looked scared- no, petrified- and that expression alone was enough to make Viktor stop in his tracks.

Oh, yeah. His father had strangled him. If that had anything to do with the fainting, then they would need to go to hospital. Quickly. Brain damage wasn’t a joke.

His hand remained under Otabek’s head, allowing him to use it as a pillow that wasn’t perfect but would be undoubtedly better than the cold airport floor.

They had attracted quite a bit of attention at this point, which wasn’t a surprise; it wasn’t every day you saw someone lying injured on the floor of an airport at midnight. Some people pointed, others raised an eyebrow in annoyance, most showed signs of concern. Yuri’s glares were doing their job and prevented people from getting too close or asking questions. Whenever someone looked as if they were about to intervene, he would stare them down with steely eyes, and they would back off quickly. Viktor almost chucked. He was nearly a real life tiger.

A minute passed. Then two. Viktor was getting concerned- he should have come to by now, but not even a flicker of an eyelid was seen. Yuri shuffled closer and leaned over, the ends of his hair tickling Otabek’s forehead. Sylvyan followed suit. Her thick braids made Yuri’s hair look childish in comparison by the way they ungracefully flopped across her brother’s face, a few centimetres away from blocking his nose until Viktor moved them out of the way.

And they waited.

They waited in silence. Sylvyan looking as if she were about to cry again. Yuri chewing on his lip and resisting the urge to pull his friend into a hug. Viktor narrowing his eyes and telling himself that if there wasn’t any sign of him regaining consciousness in the next few moments, he would have to bridal-style carry Otabek to the car and drive him to the nearest hospital.

Just as Viktor begun to move again, a small sigh escaped Otabek, just a puff of breath being released, but enough to make them all widen their eyes in hope. Sure enough, seconds later his eyes flickered open.

Yuri sat back on his heels and buried his face in his hands. Never before had brown irises looked so beautiful.

“Beks! Oh, Beka!” Sylvyan exclaimed and leaned over to press a kiss to his temples. Then another on his cheek, then his jaw, chin, lips, kissing over her brother’s face until Yuri gently grasped her shoulder to pull her back. “My smooches will make him all better, I promise.” She pleaded with wide eyes, not happy about their constant requests to leave him alone.

“Give him some space, love.” Viktor told her with a soft smile. Then he turned to Otabek, noting the discomfort on his face, hoping that it was out of confusion and not pain. “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

Otabek blinked a few times. His previously-relaxed face was now creased with a deep frown, and his eyes glassed over a few times in his attempts to make sense of his surroundings. Bright lights. Faces gazing down at him. A question from a man with silver hair. It was overwhelming, and Viktor could clearly see his distress in the way he kept squeezing his eye shut and the irregularity of his breathing.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’ve got you. You’re safe with us. Do you remember what happened?” Otabek shook his head once. “You fainted as Yuri was running towards you. You’ve been out for quite some time.”

The Kazakh didn’t say anything, however he visibly relaxed slightly after the explanation. Realising where he was, who was talking to him, Viktor supposed.

Now that Otabek had regained consciousness, they needed to get back to the car. It wouldn’t be long before the next wave of people came in to wait for the arrival of the Uzbek plane, which would probably result in Otabek being trampled and them being kicked in the head. Besides, it was late, they were tired, it was still raining outside, and they needed to get Otabek home and treat his bruises. Run him a bath or let him shower too, if he felt up for it; airplanes were stuffy and made you feel gross. Everyone knew that from experience.

While Viktor’s eyes were wandering over Otabek and he was trying to work out the best way to go about moving him, Yuri was still nibbling on his lip and willing his breathing to even out. He wanted nothing more than to be back at the apartment, cuddling his best friend, letting him sob on his shoulder if he needed. He’d happily let Sylvyan join in too. She seemed to have taken a liking to him judging by the way she would lean against him and duck her head under his arm whenever the tears started to flow once more. She was most likely traumatized as well, and without Otabek’s comforts she must have felt alone. Yuri considered it his responsibility to temporarily care for her.

That’s where she was now. Yuri gently stroked her back as she sniffled against his shirt, and usually he’d find crying children a nuisance, but now he only understood and wished that he could do the same.

“Viktor, hurry up. We’re all miserable and cold.” He snapped, though his cold tone was clearly lacking venom. No energy for that. Viktor nodded in agreement and pushed himself up into a crouching position, one hand still under Otabek’s head, the other moving to rub his shoulder.

“Alright. Otabek, I’m going to help you sit up, okay? Can you put your arms around my neck? There you go, that’s good. Tell me if you feel lightheaded.” Yuri and Sylvyan both watched as Otabek slowly sat up with the help of Viktor, his face pressed into the silver haired man’s neck, arms wrapped around him as if he’d never let go. Viktor was tall, and sturdy, and strong, and didn’t struggle under the weight. “I’m going to need you to put your arm around my neck so I can help you stand up. Do you think you’ll be able to walk okay?”

“We did a lot of running, Mister Nikforv. Our legs are a bit sore.” Sylvyan answered for him, peeking up and looking at Viktor through wet eyelashes. She didn’t have the vocabulary or understanding to explain how their legs had cramped on the plane multiple times, the muscles in their feet had been worked too hard for too long, their knees struggled under their weight and shook with every step. She had never experienced the feeling of overworked muscles before, but Otabek had (like all athletes), and he knew that they’d need heat treatments and compression.

“I think I could probably carry you if your legs give out.” Viktor mumbled in Otabek’s ear, quietly giving him the space to accept or decline. A small shake of Otabek’s head was all the permission Viktor needed to reposition his arm around his neck and slowly, carefully, pull him to his feet.

Yuri looked on in silence. Most of him was expecting Otabek to crumple again- he just looked so _weak,_ so broken and fragile- but he had underestimated Otabek’s determination. He remained upright, face still hidden, fists clenched, breathing heavy. Still hurt and vulnerable. Though this was a considerable improvement.

Sylvyan’s previous statement suddenly became clear when Yuri jumped to his feet, pulling the little girl up with him by the forearm, only to lean down again to catch her as she seemed to lose her balance. Her hands immediately wrapped around his neck and Yuri didn’t have much choice but to lift her into his arms. Luckily she was similar to Otabek in the sense that she wasn’t very tall, and he managed to carry her easily, repositioning her so her legs were hooked around his hips and his arms slipped under the backpack she was wearing. Viktor would have to carry the other two bags. If you told him a month ago that he, Yuri Plisetsky, would be holding a 7-year-old in his arms, he would have been either entertained or horrified. Now he acknowledged that having tiny limbs wrapped around him was oddly comforting.

The rain hadn’t let up. In fact, it seemed to be raining even harder, with droplets bouncing back off the concrete and catching the glimmer of the streetlights. The four of them had slowly struggled back to the entrance to the car park, Yuri trying to deny that his arms were beginning to ache, Viktor whispering comforts to Otabek and smoothing his thumb over his hipbone. Not once had the Kazakh looked up from his position of nuzzling into Viktor’s neck.

People stared at them as they walked past. A security guard asked if they were okay, which they hastily answered with a nod. It was a relief when they were greeted again by the faint glow of the car headlights; several metres away, Yuuri’s silhouette creating a ghostly black shadow behind the windscreen.

“Sylvyan, darling,” Viktor turned to the half-asleep girl in Yuri’s arms, “I know you want to be with Otabek, but I might need you to sit at the front if that’s okay. I think me and Yuri should stay with him in the back and keep an eye on him.”

She considered this for a few seconds. “I don’t mind, Mister, but I’m afraid I can’t drive. I’m only seven-and-a-quarter, I’m just too little.”

Viktor chuckled a bit and shifted to readjust Otabek. “Oh no, we have a driver. I just need you to sit in the passenger seat.”

“Oh… yes. I can do that. Is the driver scary?”

“No. He’s very lovely.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

As well as being ‘lovely’, Yuuri was also extremely concerned and panicked when a soaking wet Viktor opened the back door, clutching an equally-wet Otabek, who would have looked like he was unconscious if it wasn’t for the fact that he was standing up. Viktor helped him into the middle seat and slipped in next to him, fastening both of their belts, flicking wet hair out of his face. Yuuri gaped and stuttered, frozen in place. The sound of the passenger door opening snapped him out of his shocked daze.

Dripping blond strands intertwined with brown ones, hiding the scowling face that they were all so used to. Yuuri didn’t hesitate to throw himself behind the wheel when Yuri demanded that he moved over so he could deposit a shivering child into the empty space, take the pack off her back, fastened her belt with shaking hands. Then he shut the door and disappeared for a moment, only to open the other back door and collapse on the other side of Otabek.

“Oh, what a palaver. You’re going to need to drive, love, we need to keep an eye on him.” Viktor explained, glancing at Otabek, who had taken to his previous position of leaning against the other man. This time, though, one of his hands was outstretched and was resting on Yuri’s knee. Whether it was intentional or not, Yuri was secretly thrilled. He was gently running his fingers over cold-kissed pale knuckles, feeling damp skin and bones that stuck out a bit too far.

“W-what happened? Is he okay?” Yuuri asked, looking between the three of them.

“He fainted.”

“In the airport?”

Viktor nodded. “He hasn’t said anything, I think he might be in shock or something. I’m not sure if we’ll need to go to hospital. Better go anyway, just to be sure-“

“No.” A low voice croaked, a voice full of pain and emotion, from below Viktor’s arm. All eyes instantly turned to a blinking Otabek who was struggling to sit upright. Now that his face wasn’t concealed by Viktor’s neck and his eyes were open, the black eye that Yuuri had noticed days before was visible, now a fading yellow smudge that blended with the undereye darkness of lack of sleep. He had a small cut on his lip, his cheekbones had always been defined but were now worryingly so, he squinted in the light of the car and hoped the raindrops dripping down his face disguised the tears that strayed.

All in all, he looked _awful._

Yuri’s breathe still caught in his throat at the sound of that familiar voice.

“Otabek, are you-“ He begun.

“Don’t need a hospital. I’m fine.” Stubborn as ever, yet still such a bad liar. Viktor raised an eyebrow and didn’t point out the fact that Otabek’s left hand was still fisted in his shirt from when he had his arm around his shoulder.

“I know you don’t want to, but I think it’s for the best. Your father strangled you. Then you fainted. Doesn’t that seem concerning?”

Another rough shake of the head which made the longer strands of wet hair flop across his forehead. Otabek raised the hand that was on Yuri’s knee and pushed them back, rubbed his eyes, ran his hand over his face. His fingers ended up on his temples and he pressed lightly.

“It wasn’t…” The words caught in his throat and he sighed loudly.

“Wasn’t what?” Viktor pressed. Ironic since he had previously told Yuri to not interrogate the boy, but this could be a medical emergency, and they didn’t know how much time they had left.

“Wasn’t to do with that.” Fatigue, shock, or something unidentified was sitting in his chest, not letting him get his words out. He sighed again, frustrated with himself, eyes cast to his lap. Afraid that they were going to shout at him for being so _useless._

“Fainting? Do you know why you fainted?” Yet their voices remained calm and gentle and Otabek could breathe again.

“I haven’t… Ate. Properly. In a few days.”

It wasn’t a lie; he was too nervous to eat on the plane, and even if he had wanted to, he didn’t have enough money to get food regardless. Which also meant that Sylvyan had gone hungry since neither of them exactly had any time to grab dinner after school. Otabek had skipped breakfast and lunch that day, and as far as he could remember he had only ate the sandwich while out shopping the day before, so the light-headedness that came whenever he stood up wasn’t a surprise. Though he had never actually _fainted_ before. The combination of hunger and stress and exhaustion must have been too much.

And _god_ , was he stressed. While Sylvyan managed to get a couple of hours sleep on the plane, Otabek had sat digging his nails into his hands to distract himself from the tightness in his stomach. At one point he had to rush to the toilet and gag over the metal rim, heaving until his eyes burned, tasting stomach acid on his tongue. His neck was screaming in pain and he made a vain attempt at holding a wet paper towel to the bruising, though that made barely any difference and the towel heated up in seconds. Everything ached. He needed a hot bath, an ice pack for his bruises, an aspirin or two and a fucking meal. Part of him hoped that Yuri would be able to help him once he arrived at the apartment. Most of him thought that it was selfish to ask for comforts when Viktor had already spent so much money on plane tickets for the two of them.

Though maybe he hadn’t given them enough credit for their kindness; after stating that he hadn’t ate for a while, Otabek was quickly met with concerned and shocked protests from the people around him.

“ _What?_ Oh, you should have said!” Viktor’s blue eyes were wide with worry and his arm snaked back around his waist to hold him closer. Yuri sighed deeply, the kind people made in sympathy rather than annoyance, and moved to stroke his hand through Otabek’s hair. The boy flinched at the touch but soon gave in and happily let Yuri’s fingers roam over his scalp.

Yuuri started driving at Viktor’s command. He wasn’t too experienced, and definitely wouldn’t have been up for breaking any speed limits, but in the pouring rain and frustrated traffic no-one could blame him for taking his time. Plus, his Russian was still weak and it took him a few extra seconds to decipher what the street signs said. Now that the threat of hospitals was in the past, Otabek let his muscles relax and his eyes flicker close.

Yuri was still stroking his hair and the physical contact felt so _good_ that he almost started crying.

In the front, Sylvyan was looking out of the window, a frown on her delicate face that looked alien on someone who was usually so happy. Otabek had his eyes closed, Yuri was sat directly behind her so he didn’t see, Viktor had other things on his mind. Eventually it was Yuuri who noticed her discomfort.

“Are you okay, love?” He asked.

“I’m confused, Mister. None of these street signs are in Kazakh. They’re all in Russian.” Sylvyan pointed to a large sign as they drove past it to prove her point.

“You’re not in Kazakhstan any more, darling. You’re in Russia.”

“Russia?”

“Yes. That’s why you had that long plane journey.”

Sylvyan stared at him for a few moments. “Oh… I thought we were going to Astana, Mister. I thought we were going to the capital.”

“I’m sure you’ll like it very much in St Petersburg. And you don’t need to call me that. You can call me Yuuri.” He had thought it was rather odd that Sylvyan insisted on calling them all that- Mister Pletsky, Mister Nikforv, who knew if she would pronounce Katsuki correctly- but he only realised just how strange it was when it was directed at him.

“Yuuri? But Mister Pletsky is called that.”

“Indeed, we both have the same name. Yuri hates it.”

“That must get confusing. But it’s easy to tell you apart Mister, because you’re Asian. Where are you from?” She seemed to have cheered up slightly, though her energy levels were nowhere near what they usually were. It made Yuuri smile anyway.

“I’m from Japan. I moved here a few months ago with Viktor.”

“Japan? Oh, lovely! I heard that Japan has very nice candies.”

“It definitely does. I’ll get some for you sometime.”

They chatted idly for a few minutes, Sylvyan talking about her favourite sweets and Kazakh dishes, Yuuri nodding and adding a comment where appropriate. Yuri had been correct: she really was the opposite of Otabek. Talkative, excitable, bubbly. He could see why Otabek loved her so and why even the Russian Punk had a soft spot for the little girl.

When they finally pulled up outside the apartment, she stopped talking instantly, and twisted herself around to look at Otabek. Viktor was already unbuckling their belts and shaking the other two awake.

“Mister Nikforv, what are you going to do to Beka? I don’t want to sound mean, but you’re not allowed to hurt him, otherwise I’ll kick you right in the head. I can do it, you know. I’m very bendy.”

“Oh, dear. I’m not going to hurt him at all. We’re going to look after both of you.” Viktor couldn’t blame her for being sceptical- they were probably used to adult figures hurting and shouting and scaring. He wanted to let her know that she was in safe hands. “I’m going to get you both inside, and get you some food. You can have a bath or a shower and then we’ll get you to bed. Does that sound okay?”

Sylvyan nodded enthusiastically. “Yes please. That sounds nice.”

* * *

 

The apartment was warm. That was Otabek’s first thought as he stepped through the door- that it was warm, and comforting, and didn’t possess the chilling air that his own house always seemed to. His second thought was that it smelled good. There was no scent of alcohol or cigarettes that left circular burn marks on the kitchen table, there wasn’t that musky atmosphere that gave away that the place hadn’t been dusted for quite some time.

His third thought was that holy _fuck,_ it had been a long, long time since he had been anywhere so welcoming.

He was oblivious as Viktor removed his jacket, still awestruck by the scene before him. Clean carpets and wallpaper that wasn’t stained. Shoes that were neatly stacked in orderly piles. A coat rack which held different garments, from coats to scarves to hats suitable for every season. Even a vase on a nearby coffee table. A _vase!_ That wasn’t smashed! He wanted to run his fingers over its smooth surface, feel the paint and curves and varnish. He wanted to run his fingers over the painting that hung on the wall, the glass doorknob that led into a concealed room, the light bulbs that didn’t look to be even slightly shattered.

Seeing Viktor’s small home brought to light how low his expectations were.

“Hey. Let’s get these wet shoes off, yeah? Then we can see to your injuries while Yuuri runs you a bath.”

Otabek blindly nodded at Viktor’s words and followed him into the concealed room, which turned out to be a living room, furnished with the familiar soft couches and medals and TV setup that he was used to seeing while Skyping Yuri. On a phone screen, it looked like any other normal room. Now though, as he was standing in the doorway and gaping at how fluffy the cushions looked, he couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of expensive furniture and decent interior design.

Yuri appeared next to him. He had shrugged off his own jacket and was standing in a semi-dry top and soaking jeans, though he hardly seemed to care about his own discomfort. He was looking at Otabek with sad eyes and lips that kept parting and closing, like a goldfish, as he tried to think of the right thing to say.

_Sentiments later, Yuri. You can comfort him after you’re sure he isn’t going to pass out again._

Yuri placed a hand on Otabek’s shoulder, pushing him gently towards one of the couches. “Here, sit down.” The Kazakh didn’t protest much and let himself be led the few metres before he sat heavily with a grunt, closed his eyes, raised his fingers to his temples again. Without realising it he had leaned back and was now slumped against the back cushions.

“Where’s Sylvyan, I need to-“

“She’s in the bathroom. She’s helping Yuuri run the bath. Don’t worry, we’re focusing on _you_ right now.”

Otabek looked Yuri in the eye. For the past hour that they had been together, his emotions had been choking him, feelings of fear and pain and exhaustion that didn’t leave room for the appreciation of his best friend. As he let those worries fade away into the cushions he was leaning on he couldn’t help but stare into those green eyes.

Why was his vision turning blurry all of a sudden?

“Hey. Hey, its alright. It’s okay. You’re gonna be alright.” Yuri leaned forward to wipe at his face, wipe away tears that had started to fall. Otabek sniffed and nodded, forcing himself to hold the rest back. He didn’t want to look weak. He couldn’t, he had to stay strong so he could make sure Sylvyan was okay. He mentally promised to let her bathe and eat first and tell them to leave his own wellbeing until afterwards.

But all intentions of strength and apathy were disappearing every second.

They chipped when Yuri reached down to take his shoes and socks off, got a bowl of hot water for his aching feet, told him that it might feel a bit weird because Viktor had put some lavender oil in there.

They cracked when his scarf was slowly removed and his bruises were visible for all to see. Viktor’s Adams apple bobbed when he swallowed at the sight of them. Yuri grimaced and reached out to touch, thought better of it, wiped a couple of tears away instead.

They crumbled when an ice pack was placed against the most painful spots and someone whispered that it was going to be okay.

And when Yuri brushed his hands through his hair again, Otabek fucking _shattered._

If his crying over the phone had been bad, then the uncontrollable sobbing and forced breaths and voice breaks that overwhelmed him made his previous breakdown seem like child’s play.

Otabek wrapped his arms around Yuri and, for the first time in so many years, allowed himself to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was emotionally hard to write and the next one will probably be worse tbh but ill do it for u guys (and also because i love this fic lmao the fandom needs more emotionally unstable otabek)
> 
> i love yall!! <3


	10. I’m Definitely Shaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly i am soooo sorry this took over a month to update. college has been wild and my mental health is fuckin catastophic my dudes. here's a 6k word chapter to say sorry
> 
> secondly thank yall so much for the support!! I hit over 2k views here and on fanfiction dot net, which is crazy. I didn't think it would be anywhere near this popular bc I didn't think people liked otabek centred fics!!!
> 
> I don't want to estimate when I'll be updating this fic, cause honestly I have no idea. It could be next week, it could be next month. But no matter how frequent the updates are, please know this: I am NOT giving up on this fic, or any of my others (if ur reading Breath Easy or Chilled). 
> 
> this chapter has more Breakdown Beka, plus some cute fluff. I hope yall enjoy and sorry once again

Viktor wasn’t really surprised when he heard the sobbing that came from the living room. Nor was he surprised when he looked around the door to see Otabek leaning against Yuri, arms thrown around his neck, head buried into his chest while the blond whispered softly and stroked his back. It was all a matter of time, really, Viktor supposed. He’d rather Otabek break down when he was in the company and protection of others rather than when he was by himself.

He wanted to give the two of them some time alone, but he was slightly concerned by the Kazakh’s frantic gasps for breath in between bouts of crying. He sounded like he was close to hyperventilating, yet his sobs wouldn’t allow for the breath he so desperately needed, leaving him no choice but to painfully suck in air once his lungs were empty. Occasionally his voice would crack and it’d sound like he was almost _screaming._ He was vulnerable, he was scared, he needed to be looked after. Viktor couldn’t leave him like this.

“Hey, Otabek?” He walked over to the couch and sat gently beside the two of them. Yuri looked up immediately, eyes full of sadness and concern and confusion, as if he was asking Viktor to help. The older man carefully placed his hand on Otabek’s shoulder, not wanting to scare him, just wanting to let him know that he wasn’t alone. “Do you think you can lie down for me? That’s it, just lean back. I’m sure Yuri won’t mind lying with you.”

Yuri didn’t get much choice either way; Otabek’s arms were so tightly wound around his neck that as he leaned back, he pulled the blond somewhat on top of him. Still, he was slightly more comfortable now, and Viktor put his arm under his legs to help him lie down properly.

“Shhh. It’s okay. We’re here for you, you’re safe. It’s okay, Otabek.” Whispering comforts and stroking his back seemed to help him calm down significantly. Just a few moments passed before his uncontrollable sobbing had turned into a soft cry, one that was laced with sadness and pain and the occasional hiccup. Yuri remained silent, but Viktor swore he could see a couple of tears in those green eyes.

Luckily the running water from the bathroom masked the noise, otherwise Sylvyan would have thrown herself onto her brother and demand to know what was wrong. She was a sweet kid, both Yuuri and Viktor could see that, however she was confident and brash in a way that Otabek certainly wasn’t, and in his current state it would be easy to make him feel worse. Quiet words and caresses were what he needed; clingy 7-year-olds were not.

And besides, he had spent so long looking after his sister, making sure she was fed and warm and happy, even when he was being beaten when her eyes were closed. Sylvyan would probably be traumatised to a certain extent too- Viktor didn’t need a shrink to tell him that- though _she_ wouldn’t be the one flinching away from touch, _she_ wouldn’t be the one who woke up from nightmares in the darkest hours. Otabek had lived through unspeakable pain and it was time to focus on himself. If that meant keeping brother and sister apart for a short while, then so be it.

Gradually his tears stopped, his breathing slowed, and his grip around Yuri’s neck loosened. No-one said anything for a few minutes. At this point the taps had stopped running and the faint squeals of Sylvyan enjoying her bath floated into the living room, but other than that the only sounds were exhausted breathing and the ticking of a clock on the wall. It wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t uncomfortable. The atmosphere was too full of sadness to leave room for that.

Just as they were beginning to think Otabek had fallen asleep, he spoke again.

Unsurprisingly, his voice was rough and tired and his words were lost in the croaks that came from the back of his throat. Viktor and Yuri exchanged a worried-slash-confused glance.

“I’m sorry?” The older man asked gently, moving the palm of his hand in wide arcs across Otabek’s back, not ignoring how prominent his ribs are but knowing that it wasn’t he time to bring it up. Yuri had his hand tangled in the dark strands of his hair with his thumb rubbing the base of his skull as was pressed up against him as the lay on the couch. From their positions, they could all feel the clenching of his stomach which suggested that another wave of sobs were threatening to surface.

“Woah, it’s alright. It’s okay. Breathe, Beka, we got you.” Yuri whispered in the softest tone Viktor had ever heard him use. It was alien coming from him, someone who’s main vocabulary consisted of curses and colourful insults, although this new side of him proved to be effective since Otabek visibly relaxed again and inhaled deeply.

“I... I s-said...” He begun, thought better of it, shook his head. A few seconds later he composed himself and tried again. “I’m sorry.”

It was barely a whisper, almost lost in the deep breaths he was taking, but the other two heard it clearly and almost responded with looks of horror.

“Don’t be stupid! Of _course_ you’re going to have a fucking breakdown, Beka, you’ve been through so much shit! When was the last time you cried before this? You’ve been keeping this all in for so long with nobody to talk to. Don’t you fucking dare say you’re sorry. We don’t mind at all.” Perhaps the slightly aggressive tone of Yuri’s words made Viktor wince and look at Otabek as if he was expecting him to start crying again, but at least the blond was good at getting his point across quickly and firmly. It was true; Otabek had always been a stoic, seemingly emotionless person (whether due to trauma or embarrassment or the need to maintain a reputation), so crying and expressing his feelings was something he most likely hated to do.

“B-but I got your shirt all wet.” He stuttered a reply, wiping stray tears away with one hand and purposely avoiding eye contact. Yuri simply shrugged.

“It’s just tears. Salty water. I got pasta down it the other day and it washed out fine, so it’s not a big deal. Besides... I’d rather you cried into me than wait until you’re alone to cry into a pillow.” There was a subtle, almost non-existent hint of humour in his tone in that last sentence, and Otabek released a small huff of amusement. “Actually, talking about pasta...” He looked pointedly at the other man on the couch.

“Oh, yes! I’ll be back in a second. There’s tissues on the coffee table if you need them.” Viktor stood up suddenly and then disappeared into the kitchen. A series of bangs and curses followed a few moments later, making both boys in the living room chuckle slightly. Otabek gratefully took a tissue, blew his nose, then smiled sheepishly at Yuri.

“How are you feeling?”

“Awful.”

“Yeah, no shit. Be specific. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”

Otabek resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his friend’s bossiness. “I’m just... A lot of things. Tired. Scared. Pretty hungry, not gonna lie. I feel... relieved that I’m here, but dread what’s going to come next. I’m a mess, Yura. I don’t want to go through years of therapy before I can function like a basic human being again.”

If Yuri felt tired, it was nowhere near the level of exhaustion that dripped from the Kazakh’s words. In the artificial light of the room his bloodshot eyes made him look eighty, not eighteen, the dark circles and chapped lips and tearstained cheeks made him look simultaneously so childlike yet also old, fragile, broken. Through one eye he seemed so small and delicate, and Yuri wanted to wrap a blanket around him and massage his temples until he passed out. But through the other eye it was easy to see how much he had been through.

If he thought Yuri had the eyes of a soldier, then Otabek had the eyes of a warrior. Yuri had never thought that those brown irises could reflect so much pain.

“We’ll deal with all that later.” He replied eventually and forced himself to tear his gaze away from wet eyelashes. “You’re here. You’re safe. You and Sylvyan, no-one’s going to hurt you anymore. If anyone so much as looks at you badly I’ll fuck them up.” Yuri clenched his fists, already imagining the lengths he’d go to in order to protect his best friend. “We’ll deal with future stuff… In the future. When you’re ready. And I ain’t gonna leave you, promise.”

He smiled then, just a soft, sad twitch of his lips, a silent vow that everything was going to be okay. It wasn’t much. He couldn’t magically make everything better; he couldn’t heal the physical bruises with a touch of his fingertips, he couldn’t make his sadness go away with kind words and fingers through black hair.

But he could be there for his best friend. He would support him and show him what it was like to feel safe and loved.

The thumbs-up that Otabek gave in response made Yuri’s heart flutter.

Viktor walked in then- perfect timing, made even more perfect by the two delicious-smelling plates he was holding. Simple dishes of pasta bake were placed into Otabek’s and Yuri’s hands. Small pieces of tuna were seen when Yuri swirled the fork around his plate, suggesting that Viktor had given up on his pretentious vegan diet schedule for the time being, and he began eating quickly, having not ate much previously. Maybe 1am wasn’t the best time for a meal but fuck it. Both their stomachs’ were growling.

Otabek stared at his dish. He poked it with a finger, as if he was checking that it was real, then looked up to make eye contact with Viktor. He blinked a few times and frowned.

“Is this…. For me? Can I eat it?” He asked.

“Of course it’s for you, Otabek. I made some for Sylvyan, too, which she can have as soon as she’s finished her bath.” Viktor responded softly, taken aback by the strange question, yet not surprised.

They had to be patient with him. They didn’t yet know how long the abuse had been going on for, or the extent to which his parents hurt him, both physically and mentally. Sylvyan had said that they had only been hitting him for the past few months, however emotional abuse could sting just as much as a slap. If Otabek had been made to feel worthless and unlovable since he was a kid, then it was no wonder the prospect of someone caring for him and making him a meal was overwhelming.

Viktor didn’t say anything. He just looked on as the two ate hungrily.

It was fascinating, really, in a strange sort or of way, how Otabek responded to his surroundings. The difference between Yuri (who was slumped against the back of the couch with his feet up on the table, eating somewhat carelessly and alternating between glancing at his friend and staring at his phone) and Otabek really highlighted how the Kazakh had grown accustomed to keeping his guard up. Yuri was relaxed, comfortable, knew he was safe. Otabek kept looking towards the front door as if someone was going to come bursting in at any moment. Flinched whenever the silence was broken. Had to force himself to regulate his breathing, otherwise he would either hyperventilate or hold his breath, waiting for danger and shouting and pain.

It was fascinating. It was also heartbreaking.

The sound of loud footsteps coming downstairs made Otabek's head snap up and fearful eyes point towards the source, but it was only Sylvyan. She was dripping wet, black hair falling heavily to her waist, wearing nothing but a towel that had been wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. Yuuri followed in tow and looked sheepishly tired. His shirt was dark in places from being undoubtedly splashed by the overexcited child and his hair was tousled in a way that suggested he had been running his hands through it. Despite his fatigue, he smiled kindly, before collapsing into the nearest seat.

"Gosh, she's lively, isn't she?" He asked, watching cautiously as Sylvyan approached her brother. She gasped when she saw the food and turned to Viktor, hands on her hips, hair dripping everywhere and nothing but the towel to cover her skin.

"Can I have some of that delicious pasta, Mister Nikforv?" Food was a priority; she hardly cared that she was naked in a stranger’s living room. But why would she? She was a little kid. Innocent and childish, even if she was forced to emotionally mature a bit earlier than usual.

"Babe, come here." Otabek put his now-empty plate on the table and held out one arm to beckon her forward. He was opening one of the backpacks with his free hand, pulled out a couple of pale pink articles of clothing, threw them onto his lap and didn't hesitate to start rubbing the towel over her skin to dry her as soon as she got close enough. At first she made a few whines of disproval but soon relaxed to let him pat her dry.

The towel was soft. Otabek noticed that instantly; it was soft and smelled like gentle washing powder, nothing like the towels at home. Those were scratchy and often had to be used multiple times because they couldn't afford to wash them after every use. A faint smell of strawberries was coming from her freshly-washed hair, the scent sweet in his nostrils and pleasant but still somehow brought tears to his eyes. Every tiny thing about this cosy apartment was so overwhelmingly different from his childhood ‘home’ and he had to blink furiously to stop himself from crying over a fucking _towel_.

“Did you like your bath, love?” He busied himself with idle conversation instead, passing Sylvyan’s pyjamas to her once she was dry and running his fingers through wet strands, trying and failing to get the tangles out. Despite loathing most things ‘girly’, Sylvyan loved her hair, and refused any offers of a haircut. Said something about ‘strangling her enemies’ although Otabek tended to zone out during those conversations.

“Yep! There were lots of bubbles, and I got Mister Katsuki all wet.” She giggled and winked comically at Yuuri, who was half-asleep in the armchair. “Beks, I don’t mean to be rude, but your fingers are yanking at my hair. You need to use a hairbrush like a normal person.”

“We didn’t bring one with us.” Otabek had to hold back a small chuckle. He was so grateful that she was here with him, not only because it meant that she was safe too, but because she knew him more than anyone else. Viktor and Yuuri could be the adult figures and take care of them, but Sylvyan knew how to make him smile and when to snap out of a depressive episode and function.

Well… Sylvyan and Yuri knew him more than anyone else. The blond was still absent-mindedly running his hand up and down Otabek’s back, staring at his phone screen, blinking heavily to stay awake.

He was adorable. Otabek glanced at him and let a smile grace his lips.

“If we haven’t got a hairbrush, how are we going to keep my silky locks looking Gucci?”

“ _Gucci?_ Baby, do you know what that even _means?”_

“Of course, silly. It means fabulous.” She shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and reached up to poke his nose. “In the olden days they used to make hairbrushes out of pig hair. But we’re Muslim so we’re going to have to use human hair instead. There’s no other choice. Bend over and I’ll rip some out of your head, Beks.”

“Uh-“

“You can use mine, if you want.” Yuri sat up straight all of a sudden and stretched, causing his top to ride up to reveal an inch of bare skin (which Otabek _pretended_ not to stare at). It was only then that the two of them realised that Viktor and Yuuri had disappeared, upstairs, maybe, leaving Sylvyan and the two teenagers alone in the living room. Yuri pushed himself up and went over to his abandoned skating bag that had been kicked behind the couch, and bent down to unzip it. After a few moments of rummaging he proudly held the hairbrush out to the smiling girl.

“Wow! Thanks, Mister Pletsky!” Sylvyan grabbed it and passed it to her brother, who began to gently comb through the tangles. It was a heavy white thing- ivory, perhaps?- and the bristles did a fantastic job of smoothing out the hair that hung to Sylvyan’s waist. Luckily Otabek had a spare hairband around his wrist and he quickly twisted her hair into a basic braid to stop it from becoming messy while she slept.

“How did you learn to do that?” Yuri asked. He was staring at tan hands as they worked their way down Sylvyan’s hair.

“Do what?”

“That. Hair stuff.”

“Oh. Well, mother never took care of her hair, so I had to learn how to do it.” Otabek frowned slightly when he mentioned his mother but quickly shrugged the feeling of sadness away. “I usually do French braids for her. This’ll do for now.” He finished tying the band and patted her shoulder. “There you go, babe, we can get you some food now. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

“No need. Here you go, Sylvyan.” Turns out Viktor had gone back into the kitchen again, and he emerged holding another plate of food. It was steaming hot so maybe he had left to heat it up. There was still no sign of Yuuri, however that thought was quickly pushed aside as soon as Sylvyan literally _screamed_ and started jumping up and down, clapping her hands excitedly.

“Food! Beka, look, it’s hot food! All for my tummy!” Otabek had to stop her from grabbing the pasta with her hands, instead guiding her towards the fork and warning her that it was going to be hot. She either didn’t care or didn’t hear, since she started shovelling it into her mouth and smiling through mouthfuls of chewed-up fusilli, stopping now and then to wipe her chin.

“Okay, slow down, you’ll make yourself sick.” Viktor warned, crouching down next to her and placing his hand on her shoulder. “There’s plenty more if you’re still hungry. Just take it slow.”

Sylvyan nodded and made a noise that sounded slightly like the word ‘sorry’ through her mouthful. Yuri had taken a step back, not wanting to be hit with flying sauce, and Otabek was eyeing his sister with an expression of worry and slight amusement. Or maybe the glint in his eye was moisture from exhaustion. The clock was ticking steadily towards 2am and all of them had decided long ago to have a lie-in and not bother with practice tomorrow.

At least the atmosphere was nicer. Sylvyan’s glee and giggles had created a small sense of peace and a glimpse of happiness. Otabek wasn’t crying, Yuri had calmed down considerably, Viktor was too tired to nag them about the stuff he usually noticed. It was in that moment, when Yuri was thinking about how much he wanted to be wrapped in his blankets, he remembered that they hadn’t been told where they were sleeping.

He opened his mouth to break the news about their new bed, but Katsudon interrupted from the top of the stairs.

“Okay, it’s all done. Yurio? Do you wanna…?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” Reaching down to grab the other black rucksack- the one containing Otabek’s things- Yuri smiled to himself softly. It had all been his idea. He had whispered it to Viktor earlier, who had passed it onto Katsudon, who had excused himself after bringing Sylvyan downstairs. Otabek hadn’t commented on the sound of running water and Yuri was grateful for that. He didn’t want anything to ruin the surprise. “Beka. Come.”

“Wh-what? Where are we-“

“Just _come,_ moron. Viktor will look after your sister.”

Yuri took Otabek’s hand and the two of them made their way upstairs. Otabek questioning Yuri the entire time, Yuri basking in the warmth of the Kazakh’s fingers wrapped around his own. His skin was calloused, his fingertips pressed firmly into the back of Yuri’s hand.

He had the hands of a worker. A fighter. A survivor.

Yuuri smiled at them when they reached the top of the stairs, muttered something about a towel, and left swiftly. By now it was impossible to not notice the scent coming from the bathroom; strong roses, a hint of cinnamon, a touch of strawberry. Steam was escaping through a crack in the bathroom door, billowing towards them, and Yuri understood why Katsudon had taken his glasses off. But the more steam, the better. It added to the experience.

“Yuri, what are you-“ Otabek suddenly stopped, causing Yuri to yank on his hand forcefully. The Russian turned around and raised an eyebrow.

“Come on.” He took a step forward but Otabek refused to budge.

“No.” Brown eyes blinked nervously and he alternated between looking at the door and looking at Yuri. “I, uh… I can’t…”

“Can’t? What do you mean? What’s up?”

The faint trickle of a tap running was enough to cover their hushed conversation; neither of them wanted Yuuri or Viktor or Sylvyan to intervene. Otabek wore an unreadable facial expression. It wasn’t annoyed, or upset, or the stoic mask he usually wore. It was something more… vulnerable? Concerning?

Almost as if he was…

“Are you… scared?” Yuri tilted his head slightly and approached his friend. He let their hands drop and reached his own up to smooth back the stray strands of hair that had fallen into Otabek’s eyes. When Otabek looked back at him Yuri realised there were two thoughts that were running through his head.

The first one was obvious: he wanted to know what was wrong, if his friend was okay. He wanted to take care of Otabek and make him feel safe.

The second one took him by surprise. It made him frown in confusion, it would make him feel conflicted for days after. Maybe it scared him, slightly.

The second thought was that, as the smoke swirled around them and Otabek’s eyes caught the glint of the light, Yuri realised that he really, _really_ wanted to kiss him.

But like always, he pushed it aside.

_Live in the moment, Plisetsky, not your fantasies._ Yakov always told him that when he was a kid.

“Why are you scared, Beka? I’ll keep you safe. You know that.”

“I… Yeah, I know. I do. It’s just…” Otabek sighed and rubbed at his face.

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t… Like surprises. They make me anxious. Especially when they’re behind closed doors.” His voice dropped to an embarrassed mumble and he turned his head away slightly.

Yuri raised his eyebrows in surprise. He wasn’t yet used to this new side of his friend. Throughout their friendship, Otabek had established himself as the strong one, the one who held it together and let Yuri yell over the phone about stupid Katsudon and Viktor and Yakov and Mila. It was Yuri who showed his emotions so strongly, and it was Otabek who listened to him ramble. That was the way it had been for months.

Now things were different. Otabek needed someone to listen to _him_. That would probably take some getting used to, but, fuck it, Yuri was a multiple-gold medal winning skating champion. If he could win the Grand Prix, he sure as hell could learn how to listen to someone.

“Okay. So you don’t like surprises? At all?”

“Well… not usually. Not now in particular. I’m still a bit…” He made a vague hand gesture, not having the courage to vocalise ‘emotionally unstable’ or words to similar effect.

“Right. Okay. That’s fine, I’ll remember that. You don’t have anything to be scared of, though.” Yuri turned around to open the bathroom door, letting it swing open. He stepped inside, dropping the rucksack just inside the entrance. He beckoned Otabek to follow.

Otabek stepped inside and gasped.

The bath was nearly full to the brim with water. _Pink_ water, coloured thanks to a bath bomb, or several, judging by the mixture of scents and the different colours of glitter that shimmered on the surface. Bubbles were climbing up one side of the tub, and even they were tinted pink. It took Otabek a few moments to realise that the only reason why he could see the bath water so clearly was thanks to several candles that had been placed on the countertops, lining the bath edges, even sitting upon the toilet. The flames danced with the smoke and cast shadows across their faces. He was suddenly very grateful for the smoke, since he could feel his lip trembling and eyes burning.

_Ya Allah, man, pull yourself together._ He screamed words of strength inside his head but they were nowhere near enough to prevent the tears that leaked down his face.

That was, what, the third time he started crying that day? Fourth? He was beginning to lose count, but that was the last thing on his mind. Otabek turned around and wrapped his arms around Yuri again.

“Did you do this for me?” The words were barely audible, and it was a miracle that Yuri could make sense of them. The blond simply nodded and traced his fingers up and down Otabek’s spine.

“I- I don’t know what to say.” He sniffed loudly and stood up straight again, unable to tear his eyes away from the sparking water that looked so very inviting. Before things got bad at home, he liked to bathe at least once a week; it was never as luxurious as this, but the hot water helped his muscles relax, preparing him for another week of practice.

After his parents started drinking and shouting and smacking, he didn’t dare waste the hot water or leave Sylvyan alone for extended periods of time. Relaxing was a privilege in his house and something he could never afford. Months had passed since he laid eyes on a tub full of water.

And now the water was pink, and rose scented, and glittery, and there were candles and bubbles and a soft towel and-

It was almost too much. Something deep inside his chest was screaming _no_ , telling him that he _didn’t deserve it,_ that he was a _stupid and worthless boy, and stupid and worthless boys don’t get nice things._

Strangely, the screaming voice sounded like his mother’s. That was reason enough to ignore it, right?

Otabek figured so. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it off in one fluid motion, dropped it onto the floor. His watch followed, along with his belt, and he was about to pull down his pants when he remembered that Yuri was standing behind him.

“Do you want me to go?” Yuri asked, not wanting to invade Otabek’s privacy, but also not wanting to leave him alone. This was the most intimate they had ever been. Any other time he would have blushed at the thought of sitting with Otabek as he bathed, yet instead of feeling flustered, that overprotective and caring feeling was back again. The flicker of the candle flames made his prominent ribs and the bruises on his skin look heartbreaking. Yuri _really_ didn’t want to leave.

“Um… No. Don’t go. Please.” The Kazakh cleared his throat and looked towards the floor, hoping he wasn’t asking for too much.

“Then I’m not going. Wait, give me a sec. I need to get something. You can get in the bath, I’ll be thirty seconds.”

Otabek frowned a little, but didn’t protest. He waited until Yuri was out of sight before removing the rest of his clothing and tentatively stepping into the water.

If he was being honest, he didn’t really care if Yuri saw him naked. Once you told someone you were being abused, fainted in front of them and had a breakdown on top of them, you kind of instantly jumped to the highest level of friendship anyway. Maybe it was fucked up that cared more about him seeing his bruises than what was below the belt, but that was the truth. Everyone had genitals. Very few people winced every time their collar rubbed against their skin because their neck was swollen and the skin painted blue and purple.

Lowering himself into the water proved to be more difficult than anticipated. It was just a touch hotter than a comfortable temperature, leaving his skin tingling slightly in protest, a feeling he pushed aside. The bottom of the tub was slippery and he had to grasp onto the side to stop himself from slipping and knocking candles on top of him.

Just as he arranged himself into a semi-comfortable cross-legged position, Yuri re-entered, holding a purple bottle.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. This feels amazing.” Otabek gathered some of the bubbles to protect his modesty and eyed the bottle with suspicion. “What’s that?”

A small hum left Yuri and he picked his way through Otabek’s discarded clothing, falling to his knees in front of the tub. He looked his friend right in the eye.

“Well. That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

“Ask me?”

“It’s oil. Lavender oil, I think.”

“Okay. I don’t think 2am is the best time to be baking, Yura.”

Yuri huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not for cooking. It’s massage oil. I stole it from Katsudon.”

“What are you going to do with that?”

“Play fucking _Uno_ with it. What do you use massage oil for, Beka?”

Otabek frowned, still staring at the bottle, not understanding what Yuri was hinting at. It was late and he didn’t like riddles on a good day.

“Well, massaging, I assume.”

“Correct. Ten points to Griffindor.”

“What’s a Griffindor?”

“Otabek Altin, you are driving me crazy. Shut the fuck up and turn around so I can rub your shoulders.”

Yuri uncapped the bottle and squeezed some oil onto his hands, not giving Otabek the option to decline. Everyone knew how stubborn he was; arguing with Yuri Plisetsky once he had made his mind up about something was as good as talking to a brick wall. If he wanted to add another quad into his program, he sure as hell was going to do it. If he felt like shit and wanted to take a day off training, there wasn’t a single bribe from Viktor that could get him to change his mind.

And if he wanted to help his friend relax and feel good, no amount of declining or embarrassed muttering would deter him.

“Shut your mouth. No, I don’t mind, and yes, I _know_ I don’t have to. I want to, Beka. Turn around with your back to me. Do it!”

“Okay, okay. You’re stubborn as a mule.” The water swished dangerously close to the top of the tub as Otabek pulled himself around and leant back against the side. White porcelain was cold against his skin, but then Yuri’s warm hands were spreading the oil across his upper back, and Otabek let his eyes flicker shut. His breathing slowed and he repositioned himself slightly to give his friend more access to his skin.

It was only when Yuri’s hands started rubbing closer to his shoulders when Otabek’s eyes snapped open.

“Yura?”

“Mm?”

“Please don’t, uh, go near my neck. Like, at all. I’ll probably freak out.”

“Okay. Gotcha.”

And it was as simple as that. People respecting his boundaries was something else he’d have to slowly learn to get used to. Yuri’s hands didn’t stray any further than the top of his shoulders, as promised, and Otabek felt himself melting against the top.

Yuri gently used his thumbs to press against the muscles either side of Otabek’s spine, working them in circles, then arcs, then simply pressing firmly wherever he felt any tension. The oil made it easy for his hands to glide over his skin, and when he gained confidence he started using his knuckles and palms and pressed deeper into the muscles. Occasionally Otabek would groan, sometimes from pain but usually from pleasure, and Yuri would smirk in return.

“Where on earth did you learn to do this?” The Kazakh muttered, not bothering to make himself sound coherent. Both of them had lost track of time; the water was still hot, though, and that was all that mattered. Yuri could stay there all night touching Otabek’s skin. Otabek however would not appreciate catching a cold.

“YouTube.” Yuri replied, just as he ran his knuckles from Otabek’s mid back up to his shoulders.

“ _Fuck._ You’re good at this. Why are you watching YouTube videos about massage?”

“They’re relaxing, help me sleep. Have you ever watched ASMR? It’s kinda like that.”

“Can’t say I have.”

“I’ll introduce you to it sometime. Right, I’m gonna wash your hair now, alright? I’ll massage your scalp for you, too.”

Yuri grabbed a bottle of shampoo from the side- strawberry scented, the same type Sylvyan used- and squirted a dollop onto his hand. Fortunately Otabek’s hair was already wet and he could easily weave his fingers through the black strands. His friend sighed again, leaving further into his embrace, and Yuri let himself chuckle slightly.

“And people say _I’m_ the kitten.”

“Shush. I’ve had a bad day.” Was all Otabek replied with. His tone was humorous, if slightly exhausted.

“Day? You’ve had a bad past few months.” The shampoo was fully lathered now. Yuri was lightly dragging his nails across Otabek’s scalp, purposely avoiding the base of his skull and neck area. “You’re pretty fucking touch-starved, Beka.”

“Mm. I’m not used to people touching me nicely. Everyone who touches me wants to hurt me.” Fatigue mixed with relaxing pleasure made it easier to talk about personal things, it seemed. “Except Sylvyan.”

“And us. We’re not gonna hurt you. You know that?”

“I know, Yura. I’ve always trusted you.”

Ten minutes later Otabek climbed out of the bath after washing the suds out of his hair. Yuri left while he dried himself, and the Kazakh found him sitting on the top of the stairs. Apparently Sylvyan had gone to bed, which almost caused Otabek to start crying again when he was told they had a room to themselves, however Yuri insisted they stayed together regardless. It took two minutes to brush their teeth and then both of them were sliding under soft cheetah-print sheets.

It wasn’t weird, or awkward, or uncomfortable. Sharing a bed with Yuri was something Otabek only imagined himself doing in his dreams. Even though they fell asleep two feet apart, when morning came they would find themselves tangled together.

And when Viktor poked his head around Yuri’s door to check on him the next day at 9am, he would see three figures fast asleep and cuddled up near the edge of the bed. Sylvyan had snuck in during the night and was sandwiched comfortably between the two teenagers.

They had a long, long way to go. All of them were aware of that. It wouldn’t be easy and it wouldn’t be pretty

But Otabek and Sylvyan were safe now. And that was the important thing.

Viktor smiled to himself and joined Yuuri in the kitchen to make breakfast, not noticing that he had accidentally woken up a very loud, _very_ hungry 7-year-old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so like,,, im debating maybe ending this fic here soon-ish and then making a sequel focusing on Otabeks recovery and his and Yuri's relationship?? what do yall think? The second one will follow the same plot line, its just that this fic is at like.... 50k and with his recovery as well its gonna be huuuuge. I'm leaning towards making a sequel for the recovery/ romance? 
> 
> pls comment if you can, i appreciate and love all of u so much!! thank u for sticking around <3 <3


	11. Some boys are singing, some boys are singing the blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, sorry for such a huge break, but good news is that this is the 2nd to last chapter of this fic! And that's good news because it means I can soon start working on and put out the sequel after my exams, which focuses on Otabek's recovery and Otabek and Yuri's relationship.  
> Thank all of you who have stuck with me so far. I hope this chapter is okay:)

Yuuri was juggling a frying pan of pancake mixture, lukewarm waffles, a jar of strawberry jam and various items of cutlery, silently cursing Viktor for leaving him to tackle breakfast on his own. Cooking for two adults and Yuri was one thing; cooking for two adults, two teenagers and a 7-year-old was a whole separate challenge. Especially when the teenagers in question were still passed out in bed.

“Mister, are you _sure_ you don’t need my humble assistance? I’m a child prodigy in many areas, I promise. I was born to cook.” Sylvyan offered for the third time with a casual shrug. She had run into the kitchen ten minutes prior and grandly stated that she ‘needed nourishment immediately’, otherwise she would ‘perish into skin and bones’. Yuuri was barely awake, but really- who could say no to a face like that?

“It’s okay, darling. I’ve got this.” The Japanese man smiled from behind plate number three. “Although, I’m quite curious. Why do we need this much food, exactly?”

“Because it’s yummy! I only have cereal for breakfast at home. I need something to spice it up a little.” Another shrug and an enthusiastic thumbs-up was the end of that conversation.

Sylvyan fiddled with the ends of her braid while Yuuri busied himself sorting through the mess that had now accumulated on the kitchen table. It was nearly 9am, which would usually be regarded as a disastrously late time to rise from bed, however considering they hadn’t managed to pass out until 2 in the morning they were quick to forgive themselves. Viktor had insisted that they needed more milk for yet _another_ round of coffee and excused himself to the corner store. Yuri and Otabek had made no sound to indicate that they were awake.

The silence between skater and child was comfortable. Sylvyan was easy to be around, Yuuri realised, and he enjoyed how he didn’t feel awkward in her company. Children usually creeped him out. They stared too hard and shouted too loud. But this little girl was different- either her sense of humour or her odd vocabulary was refreshing and he found himself smiling softly as he flipped a pancake.

“Mister Kat-ski, can I ask you something?” Sylvyan questioned five minutes later when Yuuri was plating an assortment of pancakes.

“Of course, sweetheart. What’s up?”

Sylvyan didn’t say anything for a few moments. Yuuri glanced up and saw her tense expression- pursed lips, wrinkled brow, eyes trained on a very specific spot on the floor. Right when Yuuri was beginning to think she had forgot, she spoke again.

“What are we… Going to do? About mama and papa? Because I don’t want to go back. I don’t think Beka does, either.”

Well, that was unexpected. Yuuri didn’t know what to say. He simply stood staring at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish, as if he were the child in the situation.

But no- he was the adult, the responsible one, and the only one who could help ease the look of fear and discomfort that sat upon her features.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he eventually stuttered, “you and Otabek are safe here. We’re not going to let anything happen to you. We’ll look after you.” Even the thought of those horrible people coming onto Russian soil so they could get their hands on their children made Yuuri’s stomach turn.

Sylvyan nodded, grinned, began scooping berries and pancakes into her bowl. As if the conversation had never happened.

_Weird. She deals with her emotions a lot better than Otabek did._

He cringed at his own thoughts and turned his attention back to breakfast.

_Makes sense, I guess. Sylvyan wasn’t the one who had the shit beat out of her._

* * *

 

A weight on his arm brought him to consciousness. It was morning, probably late in the morning, judging by the sun streaming through the curtains. He could have checked the time on his phone but his bones felt like they were made of lead. He was tired.

So, so tired.

Last night had been… Strange. Nightmare-ridden, but not the kind of nightmares he was used to. Usually his brain entered panic mode while his eyes were closed- his dreams told him to run, to get somewhere safe, to scream for help. Usually nobody helped. Usually he woke up panting and eventually grew accustomed to the pain in his heart when he realised his dreams were pretty much his reality.

But last night his nightmares were foggy; shades of grey instead of vivid neon that made his eyes burn. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember, tried to break through the haze in his mind.

His hands. Something about his hands. Creatures- rats? Spiders? - were clawing at his hands, pinning him down, burrowing under his flesh and chewing on the tendons. The rest of his body was fine, he was free, except he couldn’t escape the vermin restrained him. The only solution was to use his _teeth-_ bite them away, rip them from his flesh. When one hand was free he…. What did he do? Use the free hand to scratch and claw at the other? Yes, that was what he did, and then the vermin disintegrated in front of him and all he could see was blood and gnawed bone.

In consciousness, Otabek clenched his fists, still feeling the lingering burn of the intrusions that his brain had created. If he rubbed his fingers together he could imagine the texture of dried blood. Everything was so real, so bright, like something horrible had actually happened to him.

The weight on his arm shifted. It groaned. A deep groan, that of a man, not the cute yawn that his sister made whenever she woke up.

“Beka?” The voice asked. Otabek remained frozen for a brief moment, heart already beginning to beat overly fast at the realisation that there was a _someone else_ in his bed with him. He was just about to push himself up on his elbows to make a quick getaway when the voice spoke again.

“How are you feeling? God, is it really that late?”

It took a few moments, moments where his heart was still trying to convince him that he needed to flee immediately, but eventually Otabek recognised the voice next to him and knew that it was okay to breathe. He turned on his side and smiled sleepily at Yuri’s frowning figure.

“I’m alright.” Fuck, the sound of his voice suggested otherwise. He sounded like he had been chewing glass. “Where’s Sylvyan? She came in here last night, didn’t she?”

Or had that been part of the dream, too?

“Probably downstairs eating, judging by the smell.” Yuri yawned ungraciously and stretched his arms above his head, blinking sleep away. “Wanna get some breakfast? Katsudon has probably gone out of his way to cook up the entire pantry, and-“

The Russian stopped suddenly as his eyes fell to Otabek again. A frown crossed his features and his vision danced from Otabek, to the pillow, then the bed sheets, and back again.

“Beka? What happened to your hand?”

The Kazakh tentatively followed Yuri’s gaze, confused as to why his friend seemed so concerned. The first thing he noticed was tiny droplets of red that lay like freckles across the white cotton of the pillow, becoming less noticeable as they trailed onto the darker cheetah-print duvet covers, but still there all the same. His hand was gripping the sheets for some reason, and the blood trail followed his fingers. Otabek looked at Yuri again in questioning before turning to stare at his own skin.

Ah. So that was why his hand continued to burn even after the dream was over. In his sleep, during his nightmare, Otabek had managed to scratch his hand up, leaving raw flesh exposed and breaking the skin in some areas. The knuckles were red and peeling, similar to how they looked one time he was angry with himself and punched the garage wall. The back of his hand was covered in scratches, some thick, some thin, all in the same direction. He winced.

“Fuck. I, uh… Bad dream. I was asleep.” He swallowed and turned to Yuri with a look of guilt in his eyes. “Shit, Yuri, I’m sorry. I- I’ll get you new covers, I’ll scrub the blood out, I’m so sorry-“

“Hey, shush. It’s okay, Beka. Chill out. Let me see that.” Before Otabek could give permission, Yuri had already grabbed his hand and was inspecting it. _“Moron”_ he muttered playfully under his breath. “First aid is not my forte, but I think this needs bandaging. Does it hurt?”

To illustrate the question, Yuri gently ran his fingers over the wounds, making Otabek wince again.

“Nope. Relatively painless, really.”

“Sarcastic ass. Stay here while I get some gauze.”

When Yuri left, Otabek took the brief time alone to take in his surroundings for the first time. Last night he had collapsed into bed and fell asleep almost instantly, only pausing to plug his phone into a charger, and so he hadn’t had time to look at his friend’s room. The only time he had seen Yuri’s St Petersburg bedroom was on his phone screen whenever they video called.

Unsurprisingly, the slightly offensive cat print bed covers were recognised, as was the cream-coloured wall behind the headboard that was decorated with photographs and small pieces of paper. He remembered seeing Yuri’s computer once or twice, and it sat tucked away in the corner next to a large dark-oak wardrobe. Stray articles of clothing were strewn around the place in typical teenage boy manner and a couple of medals were hanging proudly above a dresser.

It looked well-lived in. Perhaps not as comfortable as it would have been had he not been sharing with Viktor and Yuuri, but it was obvious that Yuri spent a lot of time here. And Otabek didn’t blame him; the bed was comfortable, the curtains were doing an excellent job of keeping the morning sun out, the walls were clean and the carpet unstained.

Otabek didn’t know whether to feel sad at the memories of his own home being nowhere near this pleasant, or grateful that he had somewhere like this to stay now.

He went with the latter.

There was still a lot to sort out, and the Kazakh wanted to keep official things at bay for as long as possible. Like what he was going to do about skating. Telling his coach and- god forbid- his parents where he was. After all, they had legal custody over Sylvyan, they could easily accuse him of kidnapping if they conjoined brain cells and attempted to understand the legal system. Not to mention everything he owned was in Kazakhstan. His and Sylvyan’s clothes, his laptop, a scrapbook of old photographs that came from a time when things were better. His skates and his medals. His fucking bank card and both of their important documents.

But those problems were for later. Not 9am when his stomach was growling and his hand still stung.

“Here we are. I’m going to rub some of this cream shit and wrap your hand up.” Yuri appeared in the doorway again, dressed in jeans and a navy tee (he must have gotten dressed in the bathroom) and holding medical supplies. “Try not to pull away, ‘kay?”

“Yeah. Thank you, Yura. I’m sorry again for-“

“Stop. Don’t apologise. Not your fault.”

Otabek smiled to himself and let Yuri wrap the dressing around knuckles, his palm, ending at his wrist. When he was done, both mutually agreed that it was time to get some food.

* * *

 

“Beka! Look, blackberries!” Sylvyan was making her way through a bowl of fruit when Otabek and Yuri entered the kitchen, grinning widely and raising her hand to throw a berry in her brother’s direction. Yuuri quickly did a double take and motioned for her to _not_ soil Viktor’s expensive marble tiles with sticky juice.

“Hey, babe. Did you sleep okay?” Otabek smiled fondly and took a seat next to Yuri, glancing at his friend beforehand as if asking for permission to sit. The blond nodded.

“I snuck in with you and Mister Pletsky. But you were squishing me so I came down to get some food and help Mister Kat-ski make pancakes. Mister Nikforv is gone shopping.” The little girl shrugged casually and threw a piece of mango into her mouth.

“You don’t have to call everyone ‘Mister’, babe.” Otabek almost laughed, but his throat was still swollen and he still felt like shit even talking. The bruising hadn’t gone down at all overnight. If anything, it felt worse, all tensed and throbbing and most likely looking horrible. Both Yuuri and Yuri had noticed how the marks looked even darker. But they didn’t say anything because they didn’t want to bring it up and upset him.

Yuuri placed a plate of fresh pancakes in front of the teenagers, all gold and glistening, shooting a warm smile in their direction. If he was being honest, Otabek tended to tune out whenever Yuri was shitting on Katsuki. Otabek thought he was a rather nice guy. A bit naïve, maybe, sometimes too eager to please his fiancé, but otherwise a nice person. It couldn’t have been easy to leave his home country and to quickly learn Russian to get by. And it was no secret that Viktor could be overwhelming, Yakov yelled too much, Yuri could be a shit if he wanted to. So there was no reason for Otabek to give the guy a hard time.

“Thank you, sir.” Otabek almost whispered, bowing his head and tentatively reaching for a fork. He was still trying to convince himself that the food that they gave him was for _him_ , he could _eat_ it, that it wasn’t going to be taken away. He was itching to push the plate away and insist that he didn’t need to drain their resources. But most of his insecurities dulled slightly when he saw Yuri next to him frantically forking pieces of pancake drenched in syrup into his mouth.

The Japanese man frowned slightly at the vocative, but didn’t say anything. He was just happy that Otabek was eating.

As Sylvyan was recalling the events of that morning and talking about her findings when she explored the apartment, ( _“A dog! There’s a dog, Beks! She barks and everything!”)_ Yuuri busied himself with the washing up and the two teenagers ate hungrily. Everything felt so mundane, so relaxed, that Otabek found himself forgetting about his stinging hand and his throbbing neck.

Of course, right at that moment, Viktor had to return and dampen the mood.

“I’m back! Yuuri, love, put the kettle on, I’ve got the good kind of coffee. None of that cheap nasty stuff. Are the kids awake?”

His animated greetings weren’t too bad (even if Yuri did scowl at ‘kids’) but the cheerful air instantly faded when the older man laid his eyes on Otabek.

“Oh, gosh. Your bruises look so painful. And what happened to your _hand_?” Viktor gasped and lunged forwards to grab Otabek’s hand, not stopping to think about how the Kazakh would react, and gripping it tightly in his own. Otabek flinched violently and stared at the silver-haired man with wide eyes.

Viktor didn’t seem to notice. “We better get some ice on your neck, maybe some cream too, hmm? Otabek? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“V-Viktor.” Yuuri stuttered from what seemed like a million miles away. “I think you should let go of him.”

“I’m just trying to help-“

“I know, love, but I think you might be scaring him.”

“Nonsense. He’s fine, see?”

Yuuri didn’t see. Nor did Sylvyan, who was staring equally as wide-eyes, her hand clutching her spoon frozen mid-air in its journey to her mouth. A berry fell and splashed back into her yoghurt.

“Viktor. Get the fuck back.” Yuri’s voice was surprisingly calm for the words he was saying, not wanting to scare his friend further, but the look on his face was anything but. Those deep green eyes were glaring hard and his jaw was clenched hard.

Viktor’s smile faltered. He looked at Yuri, at Otabek, back to Yuri again. His Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed. Then he finally let go and took a step back.

“I-I’m sorry. Really, Otabek, I didn’t mean any harm. You know that, yes?” He was fumbling over his words, mortified that he could have upset their guest in any way. More apologies were hanging from the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t voice them because Yuri interrupted.

“Outside. _Now._ ”

Behind them, Yuuri and Sylvyan exchanged glances. The front door closed gently as the two walked out.

“What the _fuck?”_ Yuri snapped as soon as they were stood in the hallway, not hesitating or offering an explanation. “You think you can just- just _grab_ him like that? What were you thinking!”

The last part was more of an aggressive statement rather than a question. Viktor looked shocked.

“I was worried! He was hurt! You wouldn’t have done anything different!”

“Oh, _wouldn’t I?_ Well first-of-fucking-all, I wouldn’t have pounced on him like a fucking moron. He was terrified! He probably thought you were going to- I don’t know- beat him or start shouting at him.” The words were harsh and laced with venom, but quiet nonetheless. No-one inside the apartment needed to hear this. Because, unlike Viktor, Yuri wasn’t an idiot and understood boundaries.

Viktor’s expression morphed from confusion into horror. “What? Why would I do that?”

“Because-“ Yuri sighed. “Because that’s what he’s probably used to, isn’t it? He can barely accept the food we give him. He could have _died_ yesterday, Viktor, and if his father knew how to strangle someone properly, he most likely would have. Have some god damn sensitivity.”

Yuri was still glaring in Viktor’s direction. Viktor sighed deeply and ran his hands through his hair, messing it up, before smoothing it down again.

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.” Now that Yuri had explained, he could see the error in his actions. “But, I- how do we treat him, then? I don’t want to tread on eggshells and patronise him. But I wouldn’t dream of hurting him or upsetting him.”

“I know. He’s…” Yuri inwardly cringed at the words in his head. It was so unlike him, lecturing Viktor about how to be _sensitive_ , when usually he couldn’t give a fuck about filtering his words. He’d throw insults and sarcasm without a second thought on an average day.

But Otabek was his friend, his best friend, and he was hurting. He needed to be looked after.

“He’s… delicate. For now. He’ll get better over time, but…” Another sigh. He hated talking about his friend like this, as if he was a crumbling flower. “We don’t know everything, but we do know that he’s used to being treated badly. We need to be careful about what we say and what we do. So that means no shouting, no dirty looks, no arguing, no _grabbing.”_ The words that fell from his lips sounded like they belonged to another man. Someone far more mature and caring than the Russian Punk the world knew of.

“I… Yes. You’re right. Should I apologise to him?”

“Give it a minute. He’s probably still shaken up.”

“Okay.”

Viktor moved to push the door open again, but paused.

“What _did_ happen to his hand, though?”

“He scratched it up. Nightmare.”

“Ah.”

And then Viktor was gone, leaving Yuri standing in the hallway alone.

The blond slid down the wall until he was in a squatting position, and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else. Not skating, not his daily call to Grandpa, not the chores that Katsudon assigned him to. His head wouldn’t let him think of anything else other than Otabek.

How fucking scared he must have been. Just sitting and squeezing his eyes closed as those assholes _hurt_ him, again and again, bruising his body and leaving him to cry in the cold. How skinny he felt as he cried in Yuri’s arms.

How Yuri couldn’t stop blaming himself for being mad at his friend’s silence and for not stepping in sooner.

He could feel the anger beginning to bubble under his skin and quickly took a few deep breaths to quell it, knowing that it wasn’t time for such trivial feelings, knowing he couldn’t make this about himself. They still had to somehow fly his and Sylvyan’s luggage over. And quickly. The two of them barely had any clothes or personal items; fortunately there were a couple of spare toothbrushes in the bathroom, but other than that, they had nothing.

Yuri honestly didn’t know what to do. He could offer emotional support, yes, and he knew Otabek would appreciate it, but other than that he was useless. He was only 16. He had no idea how legal things worked.

But he did know one thing, and it burned passionately in his heart: there was no fucking way they were ever going back to their parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment if you can spare a moment, it really helps me write when i feel stuck:)  
> lov you all hope to update sooner this time!


End file.
